The Worldsmith
by puellanerdii
Summary: Sent back in time to deal with a mysterious threat to England's nationhood, England and America contend with the undead, the power of language, and their own clashing personalities. USxUK. Also known as the "time travel, Shakespeare, and zombies" fic.
1. Prologue: The Time is Out of Joint

**13 January, 1999**

"_O for a muse of fire_," England quotes, "_that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention_," and hits rewind on the videocassette player.

America pauses, his fistful of popcorn halfway to his mouth. _Careful,_ England wants to chide him, _don't let the kernels spill between the sofa cushions._ "That's really pretentious."

"That's the first line of the play."

"I _know_ it's the first line of the play, I'm just saying—"

England sighs. "I thought it would be a proper start to things." The videocassette player whirrs and clicks behind him in agreement, or so he imagines.

The sofa, however, groans as America sinks deeper into it. "It's just a movie."

"It's a damned good movie," England says, "and I'll quote whomever I please."

"Touche." America holds up his hands in—no, surrender is never the right word for America, England thinks, his mouth twisting at the side. Appeasement, perhaps, though _that_ word's more suited to England also. "So was Agincourt actually like that?"

The way England bares his teeth isn't quite a smile. "It was equally satisfying." Ah, the image of France sprawled on the ground, his hair and armour plastered with mud and the rain spattering his cheeks—it's an image he hasn't yet tired of, even after all these centuries. "A good deal muddier, but that's difficult to portray onstage." He smirks again; it's difficult not to. "_Can this cockpit hold the vasty fields of France_, after all."

"Huh?"

"The prologue asks the audience to create the army in their mind's eye," England explains, checks the time on the videocassette player. Still another three minutes to go, it seems. "Since the stage alone isn't equal to the task."

"Is the movie?" America asks, grinning, and England ought to scoff at his cheek but there's something so guileless about it still, even after all these years. Well. _All these years_ might be overstating matters. God, he didn't even exist when Agincourt was fought, did he?

"Better," England says, "and worse. It leaves less to the imagination, but—it's difficult to explain."

"Try me."

England rubs his temples. "You've made enough films of your own history, you know the feeling. When the picture before you isn't quite as you remember it."

"Well yeah," America says, "but sometimes it's a better story that way."

"Will would agree." England has more than a trace of a smile, remembering. "He and I had this very conversation—oh, every time he wrote one of his histories, or nearly. 'We remember them twofold,' he'd say. 'As they were, and as they ought to be.'"

The tape clicks to a stop.

America's smiling, but there's a softness to it, a kind England doesn't often see on him. "Smart guy."

"Oh, he was brilliant. And rather self-effacing about it, too."

"Wait, Shakespeare was shy?"

"No, not shy, have you ever met a shy actor? It goes against the principle of the thing. And he did act, you know. He was no Burbage or Alleyn, but he did well enough with it." There was a kind of comfort in watching him perform, England recalls—he knew each board he trod, each line he spoke, knew them as surely as if they were parts of himself, and never tried to inflate their worth or call attention to the man behind the illusion. "He accepted praise for his work, he'd have been mad not to, but he never dwelled on it the way some others did."

America cranes his head to the side, and good god, why must he look so _young_ tonight? "You miss him, don't you?"

"I do," England sees no shame in admitting. "Him, and the Chamberlain's Men, and the playmakers, and their audiences." And their queen—perhaps their queen most of all—but well, he hardly needs to say that. "God, those days."

"Must've been great," America says absently, flicks kernels of popcorn onto the floor.

"America, I just vacuumed."

"It's just a few kernels."

"Yes, and you can clean them up later."

America wrinkles his nose. "Why should I clean _your_ house?"

England reaches forward and cuffs him upside the head, lightly.

"Hey!"

"You deserved it."

The next kernel of popcorn America flicks is aimed squarely at England, who manages to deflect it in time, if not quite to turn it back on America. America scoops up another fistful of popcorn and launches it at England, and this time England can't swat them all away; one even lands in his open—and sputtering—mouth. "You little—" he begins, strides over to the couch, and buffets America about the head with one of the cushions.

"You'll knock over the bowl!" America says through his laughter, but puts up a valiant effort to defend himself, fends off each strike with hands and elbows and shoulders. England swats at America's stomach, and America says "Oh no you don't" and grabs the collar of England's shirt, pulling him forward and trapping his hand behind America's back and, yes, upending the bowl of popcorn in the process.

England can't decide if the pillow trapped between their chests is too much of a buffer between them or not enough of one. Shallow as America's breath is, England can still feel it against his cheeks and lips. His chest constricts, mouth parted—

"We should." America clears his throat; he glances at something over England's shoulder, his gaze not resting on England's face. "We should probably start the movie."

"And clean this up," England agrees, glancing down at the spill.

"Yeah. I make another bowl, you clean this up?"

"Ought to be the other way around," England mutters, but does his best to withdraw. His hand's still trapped between America's back and the sofa's arm, so he says, "You need to move."

"Right. Right." America leans forward, allows England to withdraw. "And you'd burn the popcorn."

"It's better burnt," England informs him, brushing a few stray kernels off his trousers. "I'll fetch the broom."

"You are a strange little man," America calls after him, then: "Hey, England?"

"Yes?"

"What _was_ Agincourt actually like?"

England really ought to get the broom and dustpan. Instead, he pauses before the telly, leans against the cabinet it rests in. "I mentioned the mud."

"You mentioned the mud."

"Awfully convenient, that mud. For Harry, I mean. France's knights were all in armour, and our longbowmen had almost none." If he lids his eyes and breathes in, he can almost recall the smell of the day: the stench of the muck, the sweat of his soldiers, the iron reek of blood pervading everything. "The knights had to wade through the mud to reach us, and sank in it up to their knees. Imagine trudging through something that thick with twenty kilos of metal strapped to you."

America makes a face that's half-whistle, half-cringe.

"Some of them drowned in their armour," England goes on. "Those that did reach us were too exhausted to put up much of a fight. And the field was too narrow for France's numbers to do him much good. All those lines of men crushed together, scarcely able to use their swords."

"Ouch."

"Yes, well. War is rarely pleasant, particularly for the loser."

"I know _that_."

"France _did_ learn to mind my bow after that, though." England's smile can't really be called one. "Would that the lesson had stuck longer."

"Right, because Joan—"

England hopes the look he shoots America is sufficiently murderous. It quiets him, at least for the moment.

"Never mind," America says. "So, uh, did Henry really say all that? 'We band of brothers,' that stuff?"

"Will dressed it up a bit. The atmosphere was a sight more remorseful; we spent most of the eve of battle cleansing ourselves of our sins." England remembers that, too, his hand at his heart, his lips pressed to the ground. "Henry said France would likely capture and ransom the nobles, but the common folk would see no such mercy, so they had best fight for their lives. I think the message stuck."

"Kind of different from 'we band of brothers.'"

There's still popcorn clinging to England's sock. He brushes it off. "As they were," he repeats, "and as they ought to be." He really ought to do something about the rest of this; the popcorn still litters the floor, and he crushes more of it underfoot every time he shifts his weight, sends crumbs scattering in patterns he can't decipher.

—well. Save that one.

England squints and stoops. Coincidence, most likely, but he _knows_ the rune taking shape among the crumbs. He traces the emerging pattern with his finger; it's one he's outlined before, a ward to guard and protect. The air shivers as his hand passes through it, and it sets him shivering as well.

"England?"

He shakes his head. Merlin's beard, he's reading significance into everything tonight. Even Will wasn't all signs and portents. "It's nothing," he says. "I'd best clean up."

"Yeah," America says, and England looks up in time to catch the slight frown creasing his features. "You do that."

England nods and rises to standing, blinks. More patterns gather and swarm before his eyes, fleeting glimpses of—something. He rubs his eyebrows to relieve the pressure gathering behind his eyes. Damn. Is his economy fluctuating? No, the effects of that tend to be more violent, perhaps it's something in the Thames again. He says as much to America, tries to smile.

"Can't be any worse off than it used to, right?" America asks. "I mean, a century or so ago."

"I bloody well hope not," England says, wincing at the memory. The blood behind his eyes throbs steadily, swells. Damn again. It's almost the same feeling as when England first tried his hand at factory work and found himself too exhausted to close his eyes after; they were red and swollen enough that even attempting to shut them hurt. Or perhaps it's closer to a feeling he had earlier than that, on campaign in the Low Countries and Ireland—

His head nearly splits in two at that thought, and England shouts, clutches his temples. Ireland. Fuck, has she done something? No, but merely thinking her name makes him want to double over.

"Hey, England—" That note of uncertainty isn't often one he hears in America's voice, and he'd remark on it if the drumming in his head were less incessant, but even his teeth are starting to chatter to that infernal rhythm. England falls to his knees, and the ground trembles.

"England, England, your house doesn't _get_ earthquakes, seriously, England, what the hell—"

"Fuck if I know!" he manages to shout as the air around him hums and thickens.

There's a tearing sound, as though the fabric of the world is being rent, and England's head swims before it swarms with sound and light—the fae are by him, surrounding him, tugging at his clothes and hair and chattering insistently, their shrill voices overlapping until he can't make sense of any of it.

"Slower," he gasps, "please—"

"England, what the hell?" America asks, and dimly, as though through a clouded glass, England sees America get up from the couch and cross to him, take him by the wrist. England tries to snatch his hand away—the fae are making claim to him now, it's not good to interfere with that—but the fae pull in the opposite direction, and England's head spins once more.

The fae continue to shriek, and England strains to listen: _Gloriana,_ they repeat, again and again. _Gloriana._

England's blood runs cold.

"Elizabeth," he barely breathes. "Something's—something's gone wrong with Elizabeth."

"Elizabeth?" America asks, and though England can't see his face well, he imagines the confusion settling over it. "England, she's been dead for like four hundred years."

England shakes his head, mouth dry, throat thick. "Time is—time is a funny thing," he says, wetting his lips. "Who's to say what happened then isn't happening now, elsewhere—"

_Save her—save yourself—_

He can't tell whether he nods or collapses, but he does hear America shout "England!" again, feels America pull him close to his chest. Ha, it's almost the picture of how England used to hold him long ago, sometimes, but they've reversed their positions now.

The fae are little more than streaks of light now, building and burning in intensity and swirling round and round—

—until a crack greater even than the first splits the air, and there's nothing but darkness.

* * *

England opens his eyes and the darkness abates, but only slightly. The pain in his head fades no less slowly; he gives a small groan and hauls himself to his knees, blinking as his eyes adjust. America's chest is still a solid presence against his back, and England—well, it's a comfort now, he supposes.

"England," America says, his voice oddly high and thin. "England what the _fuck_ is going on?"

"I don't know," he admits, standing. Wherever they are, it's colder than a witch's tit. England can make out the foggy outline of his breath in the air, and behind him, America's teeth chatter. There really isn't much light to speak of, only a dim glow from a half-dead lantern and a few cold pinpricks of light from the window. England rubs his forehead yet again. Where is this? It _feels_ familiar, it feels like his land, but who would live here, like this?

America hasn't stopped speaking, he realizes belatedly. "—don't know if you spiked my drink or put something in the popcorn or I don't even know but seriously whatever you did, _not cool_."

"I didn't do anything, it was the fae."

"Right. The fae." America's most likely glaring. "England, stop pinning everything on your little fairy friends and tell me—"

"Quiet!" he snaps. Mercifully, America listens. England takes a steadying breath, continues. "I have no idea where we are, and only the vaguest of ideas how we got here, and I do _not_ want to attract undue attention."

"Was this a classified project or something? Some kind of—I don't know, is it that underground hadron collider? It's the underground hadron collider. Wait, that's in Switzerland."

"Yes, America, that's in Switzerland, and no, I am _not_ developing any technologies for teleportation, now help me look around."

"This is a dream," America says. "This is a really really bad dream. This is the kind of dream where I'm going to look down and notice I'm not wearing pants."

"Are you wearing pants?"

"…yep."

"Well then."

"England—no. Fragment of my imagination that looks like England. It's time to wake up, okay? I don't like this dream anymore. I want to go back to Kansas. There's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place like—what is that _smell_?"

And now that some of the initial panic's faded, England notices it, too. Really, he's surprised he didn't notice it sooner, because the reek pervades everything. It's the stench of dirt and dung, unwashed bodies and what they leave behind, of grease and sweat and drips of meet and stale beer. And something worse overlaying that: the cloying smell of rot.

"England—dream-England, you know what I mean—but anyway, _jeez_, what happened to your housekeeping—"

England stretches out his hand, strokes one of the rough-hewn bedposts before him. He can see shapes if not details, and the room has few enough of those. It's a small room, little more than a garret, which explains the chill. Other than the bed, he sees something that puts him in mind of a close-stool—no proper toilet, wherever this is, that explains some of the smell. There's a trunk at the foot of the bed, he nearly bangs his toe into it, and the bed itself gives off a sort of dying heat; America's noticed that, and he holds his hands over the covers, rubs them together briskly. If England squints, he can see a desk in the far corner—

—and a figure slumped over it.

Again, England freezes, but the figure doesn't move.

"England," America says, now in a whisper, "there's someone here."

"Yes. I know."

Slowly, slowly, England creeps closer. The silence is thicker than he'd like. Some distant sounds from outside filter in—shouts, perhaps, and a sudden squeak—but no car horns, and none of the country noises England knows. It's a cliché, but England suspects the loudest sound is the hammering of his heart.

Slowly, slowly, England rounds the corner of the desk. Slowly, slowly, England stretches his hand towards the man, and the dying lantern-light spills onto his fingers.

America, of course, abandons such delicacy, and taps the man on the shoulder.

"What the sodding hell—" England begins, but the man doesn't stir.

"Shit," America breathes. "England, is he dead?"

He's had to say _I don't know_ too many times, and here's another. "I don't know. It would explain the smell."

"Oh man, you have no idea how much I don't want to be in a creepy house in the middle of the night with a dead person. No. Idea."

"I have a fairly good idea," England says, recalls all the nights America used to crawl into his bed. He hoists the lantern aloft to get a better look at the man and starts: the man's jerkin and doublet hang about him far too loosely, and even in this light, England can see the black stains on his cuffs, the dirt ringing his collar. A wealthy man, or he was once. More significantly, a man from another time. The chill settles into England's bones. Where have the fae taken them?

He lifts the lantern higher to cast some light on the man's face, and nearly drops it.

"Dear sweet fucking Christ," he breathes.

"What?"

"It's Edmund," England says, barely believing it himself. "Edmund Spenser. _Gloriana_. Of course."

"Gloriana? Edmund Spenser? The _poet_?"

"Yes, the poet." _Died for want of bread_, Ben Jonson said, and England can believe it. His own stomach gives a pang at the hollowness of Spenser's cheeks, the sharpness of the bones beneath. Damn and damn again. "The fae said Gloriana was in danger. Gloriana was his name for her in _The Faerie Queene_."

"That's great and all, England, but he's been dead for—"

"Four hundred years, yes." The light itself trembles. "Considerably less than that now."

"No way. No. No way in hell." America's voice rises, sharper than the chill. He seizes England by the shoulder, spins him around. "This is just—it's one of those bad dreams you get from indigestion or something, I never should have eaten that pot roast you made, I bet I got food poisoning and that's why I'm sharing a room with a guy who's been dead for _four hundred years_ because—I mean, I'm dreaming, I have to be dreaming, I'll pinch my leg to prove it—ow!"

"America," England hisses, "you're hysterical."

"I'm not hysterical!" The effect of America trying to shout and whisper at the same time would be comical were England himself not on the verge of doing the same. "I just—these things don't happen."

"You believe in aliens," England murmurs, and the odd strain seems to have crept into his voice now. "Is this so much harder to accept?"

"_Aliens_ are not _time travel_ with _fairies_ and have I mentioned the part where we're in the room with a dead man in the middle of the night because I am seriously not okay with that—"

Spenser groans. England _does_ drop the lantern. Somehow, mercifully, it stays lit.

"—he's alive?"

England wastes no time, takes Spenser's wrist and presses two fingers against the vein. His pulse is sluggish, weakening by the beat, but there. "Barely. Spenser, Spenser, do you hear me?"

There's movement behind Spenser's eyelids, at least; his lips part, but no words come out. Is England too late? Inwardly, he curses himself, and curses everything else he can think of for good measure, from the courtiers who allowed his most treasured poet to starve like this, to the fae for taking him through time with no explanation, to America, who has picked up a pewter cup from the desk and is, from the looks of it, sniffing its contents.

"England," America says, and the colour of his voice has changed again, darkened. "How did this guy die? In history?"

"Starvation," England says, smoothes some of the rank hair from Spenser's brow.

"I'd rethink that one." America holds the cup under his nose, and England nearly gags on the scent: roses mixed with rot.

"Hellebore. Black hellebore," he manages, and looks down at Spenser in horror. "Good god, man, did you do this to yourself?"

"Not I," Spenser croaks at last, and England cannot bend closer to listen fast enough.  
But more isn't forthcoming, and England has no water to offer him.

"Jesus, look at his throat," America says. "It swelled right up."

"I _know_," England snaps, and grabs Spenser's wrist again. "Thy Nation speaks, Spenser."

Some flicker of light stirs behind his eyes. "Praise god," he whispers, each word a labour. "I did hope—I would see you, before the end."

"Who did this to thee? Speak, if you can."

Spenser chokes, the brightness in his eyes now almost feverish. "The book—"

"What?" America asks.

"Gone—ought have been—" Spittle foams at the corners of Spenser's mouth as his limbs stiffen, his eyes roll; his chair rattles against the floorboards as he leans back into the darkness, trembling.

"America, hold him still!" England shouts. "He's convulsing!"

America nods, and even in the dim light England can see the color leech from his face. He grips Spenser 'round the torso, pinning his arms close, and though Spenser's legs thrash madly the rest of him remains contained. Perhaps too contained—the muscles at the side of Spenser's cheek twitch under England's fingers, but his jaw remains shut. Somehow, he forces the words through: "Find—Will—Will Shakespeare—"

"We shall, we swear it—Spenser—Spenser—Edmund, stay!"

But with one final great shudder, he is gone, the lantern guttering and dying with him.

"England," America whispers in the thickening dark. "England, _what's going on_?"

Trembling, England slides his fingers up Spenser's face, finds the lids of his eyes, pulls them down. "I suspect we're about to find out."

* * *

.

* * *

A/N: The complete footnotes will come at the end of this fic. There will be a lot of them! (Seriously, I have so many books stacked on my desk right now.)

Agincourt! Agincourt was awesome—well, if you were English. The English were grossly outnumbered, but thanks to their longbows and to some really awful terrain on the field, they prevailed against the French. Also, watch Kenneth Branagh's rendition of Henry V's Saint Crispian's Day address if you have the chance. Just—just do.

Edmund Spenser was basically England's poet laureate during Elizabeth I's reign—his epic _The Fairie Queene_ is a mythical retelling of her court. He died on January 13, 1599 "from lack of bread" according to Ben Jonson, but—well, the fact that the summary of this fic mentions Shakespeare and zombies should indicate that the official version of events might not be what happens here.


	2. Something Rotten

**January 13, 1599**

America is stuck in the dark with a dead man.

If this isn't the _last_ situation he wants to be in (the _last_ situation he wants to be in probably involves Russia and Cuba and China playing catch with missiles on his front lawn, or maybe killer clowns), then it's pretty close to it. He shivers, and not just because this room sucks all the warmth out of him. Jesus, haven't these people heard of central air?

Well, no, not if it's 1599, but there's no way it's 1599. You can't just travel back in time, imaginary fairies or no, and even if you _could_ America guesses the rules would have to be a little bit different for Nations, because how can you _be_ something you _weren't_ then—

His head hurts, and no matter how much he shakes it, it won't clear. Anyway. This can't be 1599, and if it's not 1599, there's not really a dead man slumped over the desk and England isn't really whispering something in a language that makes America's ears buzz and America isn't really cold, because he isn't even really here.

Goosebumps prickle up all over his arms, and he hugs himself more tightly. He's awfully cold for not being here. England keeps chanting; the sounds scrape America's ears, and he hisses, "Will you stop that?"

"I'm making inquiries of the fae," England says, and America can hear his teeth grit. "Hush."

"Making inquiries of the—England, now is _not a good time_ to talk to your invisible magical friends!"

"It's a damned good time, as they've got a better idea of what the fuck's happening here than I do."

Great. Just great. America's nails bite into his arms. "I know what's going on."

"Oh really."

Holding a conversation with England when America can barely see three feet in front of his own nose is a little too creepy for his liking, he decides. He can't even see his breath fogging. "Yep. This is a dream."

"A—is that really the best you can come up with?"

"It's the only thing that makes _sense_," America retorts, crosses his arms tighter, braces himself against the fresh blast of cold.

"Yes, because it makes so much more sense to deny what's in front of you—"

"Nothing's in front of me!" he shouts, and the sound rings out in the awful flat darkness. "I'm asleep!"

"America—America, _fine_," England says, his voice drawing closer. "You're asleep, I haven't the energy to argue the point," which is such an England thing to say when he knows America's winning whatever argument they're having, "but if you _are_ sleeping and you haven't been able to wake yet, why not accept the dream?"

"Why not play along, you mean."

"Precisely."

"Because this dream _sucks_." America glares at his surroundings—well, more like squints at the bits of them he can see, the panes of frosted glass and the planks framing the window. "I'm cold and I'm practically blind and there's a murdered guy sitting like three feet away from me."

"Yes, and dead before he could name his murderer. Or unable to." England sighs. It's a softer sound than America's used to from him. "That's why I summoned the fae, you know, to see if they could detect a geas on him."

"A what?" America asks, leaves aside the fact that none of this makes any sense. "And he did say someone's name, he said Will Shakespeare—"

"Will Shakespeare is _not_ a murderer," England snaps, and America's heel hits the bedpost as he recoils. "For the love of—sweet fucking Christ, I knew the man, he's no villain."

"He writes a pretty convincing one."

England scoffs. "And do you think Anthony Hopkins eats people on a regular basis?"

"Of course not," America says, and adds, "that's different."

"Is it really."

New topic. America rubs his eyes. Why are the two of them even talking about this? It's not like any of it's happening. The chill starts to seep into his bones, and he stifles another shudder. "Okay, so let's say _find Will Shakespeare_ meant something else. What? And why didn't Spenser say who killed him?"

"Perhaps he couldn't. Or perhaps this was more important." England's breath settles on the back of America's neck, and even though it warms his skin, he shivers.

"More important? Why? England, why are we even _here_?"

"I thought you said we weren't."

America glares—or would, if he knew where to glare. "Okay, let's say I'm kind of maybe playing along with this dream thing, because it doesn't look like I can wake up anytime soon. So it looks like I'm stuck here." He gives his leg another hopeful pinch. Yep, still stuck. "So where is here?"

"London," England says, almost too quietly to be heard, and America wants to reach out and make sure he's still there, feel him, pull him closer—so it's not like he's been left in the cold, ha, get it. He shoves his hands into his pockets instead.

"January 13, 1599, if I'm not mistaken, or damned close to it," England continues. "Elizabeth reigns—for another three years, at any rate. She's waging war on my sister, and she'll send her favorite, the Earl of Essex, to manage the campaign in a few months' time. He'll _mis_manage it, and fall into disgrace. Spain stages another Armada later this year—or I think he will, and we act accordingly, but Spain's ships never arrive."

"Kinda depressing. And this guy Spenser, he dies that year, too?"

"Yes."

"But not like this."

"No. Not like this."

"England it's really dark and I'm really cold—"

"Yes, I'm aware!" From the flat thump, it sounds like England struck the bedpost. "We're going nowhere with this, damn it."

"Then let's leave. Seriously."

England hesitates.

"England, unless you can dust for fingerprints or something—"

"That's what I'm trying to do. Metaphorically, at least. The fae _could_ do me a sodding favor—oh hush, you lot, what do you mean you can't—"

"England, let's go!"

"I'm trying to get the dear little buggers to help me scry the past, but they're making an awful racket, say they don't dare trespass, well apparently you dared trespass when you yanked me out of my own time—oh, it wasn't _you_, _so_ sorry, but could you bloody—"

Something scrapes and skids across the ceiling.

"Shit," America and England say at the same time.

"Who's that?" America hisses.

"Another lodger, I shouldn't wonder—"  
"Or a burglar, or the murderer, what if the murderer's been listening to us the whole time—"

England grabs for America's hand in the dark, and his hand's the warmest thing America's felt yet here, he can't help squeezing back just a little, enough to get his blood circulating again. "Let's not stay and find out, shall we?" England murmurs as the scraping sharpens overhead.

Now the blood's draining back out of America's hands. He swallows. Great. "England, where are the stairs?"

"The far right corner, I'm certain I saw—"

Creak.

"—oh bollocks."

"Sounds about right."

They can't run to the stairs, it's too dark for that, but they can fumble toward them as fast as possible, let go of each others' hands to stretch them out in front, feel their way around in the dark. America stumbles onto the first step and nearly pitches down it, but England grabs the back of his collar and hauls him to his feet. America means to tell him thanks but then there's another set of footsteps, heavy and measured, and even if this is a dream, hell if America's going to be caught by the boogeyman. Even the starlight from the window dims, jesus, can the timing get any worse?

The footsteps get louder and now England's hands are pressed to America's back, shoving, and America clutches at England's sleeves for support except that sends both of them skittering down the stairs, pressed together and tumbling. England's knee sinks into America's stomach—he hacks and coughs and doesn't _mean_ to shove England off, but the next thing he knows, he's sprawled at the bottom of the steps alone.

Not good. The footsteps seem to be getting softer, at least, and America strains to hear England's even softer walk, but there's nothing coming down the stairs, which is good and bad. "England?" he calls, as loudly as he dares. Nothing. Maybe he _did_ hit the ground before America. Maybe he's already left. Maybe. The cold hasn't gone away, but America's palms still sweat. He can't make out much down here, either, though at least someone thought to put a lantern in the window. It's almost exhausted itself, but between the flame and the starlight spilling in, America can make out the outline of a door.

The footsteps start back up, the planks above America's head creak, and America hisses "hurry!" up the steps and dashes for the door, bangs it open and hopes it won't slam shut. Just in case anyone actually _is_ living in there other than the dead man, though he kind of doubts it.

Well, damn. If he thought the cold was bad before, it was nothing compared to this: the wind shrieks and sends flurries spiraling toward America's eyes, and he's barely brushed the snow out of the way before another gust nearly knocks him flat against the wall. The chill sinks deeper than his bones; christ, it's like ice is forming in his blood. "England?" he calls again, or tries to, his teeth are chattering too much to do it right, but England's not coming out the door.

Not good.

At least he can't hear the footsteps out here, though that might be because the wind shrieks louder than almost anything else. Jesus. Winters at England's place aren't usually this bad—hell, America's spent balmier winters at _Russia's_ place. At least he's a Nation, he reminds himself, not like he can get hypothermia as long as some of his people are warm somewhere.

Unless it's 1599 after all, in which case America's not sure if he even _has_ people. He can't really remember dates until—1607 or so? Something like that. He has memories before then, but they're about as foggy as America's breath is right now. Where the hell did England go?

Maybe there's a door in the back? America squints, tries to make out the shape of the street. He's been to his share of ren faires and stuff, but this is different: the street twists and turns and narrows in on itself until it becomes this giant mass of crooked shadows, and ren faires don't usually have giant piles of—America doesn't even know what, but the wind changes direction and blows the smells right up his nose. He gags. Okay, some of his cities haven't always smelled like sunshine and roses, either, but America doesn't even want to know what's splattered across his shoes right now. "Okay," he says, coughs to keep the smells from crawling down his throat, "let's—let's get out of here."

He stumbles towards the pale light the lantern's giving off, hugs the wall until he rounds the corner of the townhouse. Not much room between this one and the one next door, and the squelching noises under his feet make him shudder, never mind the plaster scraping his arms, but at least the walls shield him from the wind some. "England," he says, "England, where are you?"

No answer. Oh great. America tries to remember what getting lost in a dream means, but all he can come up with is _bad news_, which sounds about right. He can't even hear if the other guy's come out of the house yet, the wind's picked up and the howls batter his ears—what if he caught up with England? What if that's the reason England hasn't come out yet? Or what if England _did_ make it out the back door and the—the whatever it is—is right behind America now—

He yelps and springs forward, right smack in the middle of a group of men.

Armed men, he adds mentally. Men with swords. Men with swords and scowls. Uh-oh.

"God a'mercy, you gave me a fright," says one of the men, who looks like he's got a pair of onions strapped to his thighs. (What America wouldn't do for that cape, though.) "Who are you, pray, and what brings you here?"

_I wish I knew._ America's teeth chatter. They're all looking at him pretty expectantly, and the other two men have moved around to circle him. He's still strong enough to take all of them, he thinks, and throwing a punch or two might get his blood moving again, but then he'd have to split, and—

He'd have to split. That thought cuts through the numbness. He'd have to run through the freezing cold and he has no idea _where_ to run or _where England is_ and it's not like he's never been to London but this sure as hell isn't the London he knows and the people aren't really speaking _his_ language and he'd really, really like to go home now.

Surreptitiously, he pinches his leg. Fourth time's the charm. Or not.

"Have you lost your tongue, man?" one of the men behind him asks.

Right. America clears his throat, tries to grin even if it feels like he cracks his face when he does it. "Uh. Prithee, sirs! I, um. I cometh to—" Christ, he hasn't talked like this in centuries, if ever. When do you use the –eth, again? "I cometh to attend—no, wait, to wait upon. Uh. Thy pleasure?"

The first guy looks nonplussed. "What manner of speech is this?" he asks.

"I know not," says one of the guys in back. "I have not heard its like."

Oops. America grins, holds his arms out to show he's unarmed. (Ha, arms to show he's unarmed—oh wow he's cold.) "Lo, I am—I am a traveler! A traveler dicked around—I mean, cast down by fortune," he's _sure_ he read that in one of Shakespeare's plays, "and uh kind of strandedeth at the moment, so if you—" Crap, should he say _thou_ instead? "Uh. If thou could point me to yon inn, I would be way grateful, because it is cold as balls out here."

"His speech and dress are passing strange," the third man says.

"Yeah, well, taketh one to knoweth one, buddy."

"A traveler, sayest thou?" the lead guy asks. "Show thy papers."

America grimaces, and not just because of the cold. "Papers?"

"Thou art a traveler, aye? Where are thy traveling papers?"

Jeez, England had bureaucracy this far back? "I, uh, left 'em in the privy, but if you'll giveth me one second—"

"Art thou a rogue, a madman, or both, sirrah?" asks the first, and the tip of his sword's pointed at America's neck. Not good. "The captain of the town watch bids thee speak, for no God-fearing man walks the streets at this hour."

"I was walkingeth the alleyways, and did you just call me a hooker?"

The guy blinks, but doesn't lower the sword.

"Never mind. Look, I apologize most humbly for the confusion, can you please let me go on my merry way, 'cause uh, there art this other guy waiting for me, and he's going to be most pissy with all of thou, if you know what I mean."

"Thou hadst business with Sir Spenser?"

"Yeah! Him! So, uh, pray let me just slip inside and we can forgetteth this whole thing?"

America distinctly feels the points of two swords poke him in the back. Oh boy.

"We shall summon him, and see if he will vouch for thee," the first man says. "If not—stranger thou art, thou still knowest the penalty for burglary?"

"Most bad," America guesses, and from the grim smile on the guy's face, he's right.

Can't be worse than the penalty for murder, though, which America remembers right as the captain withdraws his sword and starts to bang on the wall. Spenser's dead. Really dead. And if America says he meant to call on a guy who's now dead—well, this might be a couple centuries before Law and Order, but it's still suspicious.

"Sir Spenser! Sir Spenser!" the man shouts, then: "He answers not."

"Probably sleeping. Eth," America adds helpfully.

He's kind of the perfect fall guy for whoever's still inside the house, isn't he? Or whatever, his brain unhelpfully supplies. The next wave of cold hits hard enough to make him weak in the knees. Really might be time to make a break for it after all.

"Come," the man barks, and the two guys in back begin not-so-subtly nudging America towards the door. The door America forgot to close all the way. The snow's falling a little harder now, but not hard enough to fill in the faint outline of his footprints.

Well, fucketh.

"What treachery is this?" the man says, his eyes sparking with the lantern's dying glow, and America really doesn't like how his blade shines in the starlight. "A good man's door forced open, and he himself insensible to the world!"

"Whoa, wait, let's not jumpeth to conclusions," America says as quickly as he can, forces the words through his chattering teeth, "it looks like yon door was opened from the inside, dude, look at the tracks in the snow, look at the dang door itself—"

"He speaks true," says one of the men behind America, but the first guy isn't having it.

"Ay, thou wouldst make it seem so, wouldst not? Sir Spenser!" he calls again. "Sir Spenser, we have apprehended—"

"Look, this is all a huge huge mistake—"

"Ay, and the mistake is thine, as thou wilt see when we drag thee before Sir Spenser—"

"Trust me you _really_ don't want to do that—"

"Is there a problem, sirs?"

That's a new voice, and a much quieter one. America twists around as much as he can to see. A man's standing a few feet away in the street; America can't see his face too well from here, but he can make out the dark outline of his cloak, the way he carries himself straight as a pole. He draws closer, and now America sees the moustache framing his lips, the hair thinning on top of his head, the beginnings of a beard growing on his chin. There's something _familiar_ about that face, but America's brain is too frozen to place it right.

"Nay, good master—" America's heckler says, squinting at the newcomer. His eyes widen. "'Pon my honor, 'tis you, and an honor it is, sir."

"Nay, I'll have none of that," the man says, smiling faintly. "I but do my office—and you yours, it seems. What business have you with my cousin?"

His what?

"Your what?" says the guy, who apparently has the same idea.

"Ay, my cousin," the man repeats, unfazed. "This is the great Master Braun, an actor of no small renown in his native Bavaria."

America's about to protest he looks nothing like Bavaria—he's not wearing any lederhosen, for one—but his teeth chatter too hard for him to get it out. Which might be for the best, on second thought. "Yeah!" he says at last. "Ich bin ein, uh, Bavarianer."

"I told him I meant to call on Sir Spenser at twelve," the man continues, and if the corners of his mouth twitch a little, America's pretty sure he's the only one who sees. "Alas, he thought I meant midnight and not noon; they refer to both as 'twelve' in Bavaria, as a man of learning like yourself must understand."

"Ay, Master Shakespeare, I do."

America does his best not to gawp.

_Shakespeare_ That's _Shakespeare_?

His face really is going to freeze like this, and not just because of the cold.

"But what of his dress, if it can be called that?" the man continues.

"A traditional Bavarian costume," Shakespeare says, and if America didn't know better, he'd say Shakespeare was trying hard not to crack up. But hey, he's an actor, that's why they pay him the big bucks, right? Or the living wage, at least. "Pay it no mind, I pray you."

"If you will vouch for him," the man begins, half-smiles at Shakespeare and half-scowls at America.

"Ay, that I will." Shakespeare steps forward, his cloak swirling, and extends his hand; the man's eyes light up. "I shall escort Master Braun to his lodgings, and you shall save yourself the trouble of taking him to the Gatehouse."

"Of course, Master Shakespeare." America can practically see the guy ooze. It's pretty gross. He turns to America, and the oozing stops. "And if I catch thee on Kings Street again, sirrah—"

Shakespeare coughs, delicately.

"—if I catch _you_ on Kings Street again, man," the man says, shoots America the stink-eye. "You may be sure it's the Gatehouse for you—Newgate, if I can manage it!"

The man swirls his cloak, though he doesn't nearly do it as well as Shakespeare did, and heads down the nearest alleyway-street until the snow and shadows blot him out. Shakespeare holds his own lantern a little higher, enough to cast light on the muddy street beneath them, even if the flame sputters a lot.

"They really like you around here, huh?" America says, fights the urge to curl up on himself like a hedgehog. God, it's cold. He's said it before, he'll say it again, he'll keep saying it until it isn't or until he can think of something else, anything else.

"The man is Jakes," Shakespeare says. "I know him; he owes Burbage some seven pounds." America swears Shakespeare's eyes twinkle, if softly. "And I helped him ease that debt, perhaps, if only by a small amount."

Ease the debt? Wait. America blinks, America blinks, remembers the way Shakespeare and that officer clasped hands. "Wait a second, did you just _bribe_ a _cop_?"

"A 'cop,' did you say?" Shakespeare asks. America can't see him frown, not really, not in the guttering light from the lantern, but he hears how he hesitates.

"An, um. A constable? An officer of the law? That guy back there. Jakes."

The light flickers again, catches Shakespeare's smile. "Aye, I did."

"Is that legal?"

"It is permitted, when a man must scour the streets for vagrants and receive no pay for it. Come, we must not tarry. I have a writ from Her Majesty that lets me travel the streets past curfew; you do not, I'll wager."

"Nope," America says, though he hopes to hell England'll get him one. He and Elizabeth were tight, right? Real tight. His stomach kind of knots. Where is that guy, anyway? Way to run off and leave America to fend for himself, seriously. Unless there's some reason he had to haul out of there—but he's England, he's older than Christ, he's not going to let some—some whatever hurt him. Definitely not. America's skin's all wet, but his throat's awfully dry. "So uh," he says, changes the subject. "You're Shakespeare."

"Ay."

"_Sweet._"

"Sweet?" Shakespeare frowns. "I've not had that appended to my name often."

"No, no. Uh. Sweet means—cool." Crap, he won't know that either. "Awesome? Something you approve of?"

"Ah." Now the soft smile's back. America likes it. Less showy than what you'd expect from like the greatest writer of all time, but it looks like Shakespeare's content enough with it and doesn't want to force it further, and who's America to argue? "You speak a most strange dialect, sir."

"I guess so." America cracks a grin of his own. "_You_ guys sound strange to me."

"Ay, that we must." Shakespeare hoists the lantern higher, peers at them as they turn right, off of Kings Street and onto somewhere even darker and narrower, where people have doused the lanterns in their windows. "You're not from Bavaria, I gather—where, if I might ask?"

Good question. Tricky answer. "I'm—I'm Jones," he says. "Alfred Jones." Calling himself _America_ would probably raise a whole lot of questions he's a little too cold to answer right now, even though he suspects Shakespeare would be a pretty openminded guy about that kind of thing. He wrote about fairies and stuff, didn't he? Nations can't be that much weirder. "I'm from, uh. I'm from—Schnittelheim," he says. It's the most German thing he can come up with on short notice.

"Schnittelheim," Shakespeare repeats, stumbles over the consonants, not that America blames him. For all that America talks differently than he does, his accent reminds America less of England and more of, well, America himself. Or some kind of freakish hybrid of the Midwest and Scotland, maybe, it's all about the flat _a_s and the hard, almost rolling _r_s. "Where is this Schnittelheim?"

"In Germany," America says. "Way deep in Germany."

"I had thought it Swedish, perhaps. Or Danish."

"We're pretty close to Denmark!" he says. "And we've got a lot of Swedes in the village."

"The village of Schnittelheim."

"Yeah. You like the way it sounds?"

Shakespeare doesn't answer, just breathes in and echoes the word again. "It puts me in mind of clipping and scraping," he says. "Marvelous qualities to evoke, truly."

"Marvelous?"

"When one needs a word to clip and scrape, I can think of few better suited for the task." America's barely tracking the twists in the streets anymore, the number of times he's had to dodge a wooden overhang or steer clear of brown sludge or cover his nose when a particularly strong wind blows, uh, the reek of dung his way. That's the one good thing about the cold, it freezes his nose so he can't pick up the worst of the smells.

Can England track him through all this, he wonders? London can't be _that_ big in 1599, so he's got to run into him sooner or later right?

Wow, the cold really _is_ freezing his brain up. This is a dream. Totally a dream. He'll see England when he wakes up again, and England'll probably _tsk_ at him for falling asleep on the couch, and then America'll throw another pillow at him, and maybe England'll catch America's wrist before he can, and if he does that—

Shakespeare coughs again.

Whoa. Serious hypothermia moment there. So much for him not getting that cold. America shakes his head. "Sorry."

"You—" Shakespeare hesitates; even the lantern light flickers. "You said something, I believe. Forgive my enquiry, if they were not words meant for my ears."

Crap, did he say that aloud? Yeah, he needs to get inside soon before his thoughts start to dribble out of his ears. Or his mouth. "Just, uh, just wondering why you decided to help me out."

This hesitation's even longer than the first. "Sir Spenser summoned me to him," he says. "He said I should come after the first cockscrow." He shakes his head slowly, like it's in a fog. "He said it was of the utmost urgency, and that I should tell no one—you will forgive me if I impose, I hope, but I feel as though I can tell you."

"Yeah, a lot of people do," America says. Was that what _Find Will Shakespeare_ meant? Seems a lot more likely than this guy killing anyone, at least. Also, he hopes that wherever Shakespeare's taking him is close. Really close. "So you want to know what I know?"

It's Shakespeare's longest hesitation yet. The guy's a good liar, America's seen that; what's bugging him? "Yes," he says. "I do. And other things besides, but perhaps they would be best discussed in the morning."

"The morning. Sure." Heck, by the morning, he might be awake for real. You can't fall asleep in a dream, can you?

"I will say, for now, that I was told to." This smile of Shakespeare's is the softest America's ever seen it, not that he has a whole lot to compare it to. "And your manner—reminds me of someone."

Told to? Does that mean he's run into England?

"This is where the Lord Chamberlain's Men lodge, when we have need of it," Shakespeare says, stands under a sign. It's too dark to make out the symbol well, but if America squints, he thinks it looks like a hand holding—a bird? Something with wings, anyway. He pushes the door open, and America barely has time to mutter _thank you_ before he bolts past Shakespeare into the—

—well, it's a little warmer inside, at least. No wind, and there's a roaring fire going in the corner. America doesn't push his way there, exactly, but he soaks up as much of the light and heat as he can on his way over. There are four other men sitting around the fire, and they sort of jump when America walks over.

"Hi!" he says. "Alfred Jones. I'm Will's friend from Schnittelheim."

Shakespeare—Will—draws closer, too, and in this light America _can_ see him trying not to laugh. "He's a clown like yourself, master Kemp," Will says, nods to a muscular man with a grizzled beard.

Kemp snorts, his eyes narrowed. "Couldn't find my better on these fair shores, could you? Had to scour the Continent for my replacement, have you?"

"Gentlemen," says the man in the back, standing up, "not tonight." Everything about him droops: his eyebrows, the wrinkles around his eyes, even his moustache.

"This is Richard Burbage, Master Jones," Shakespeare murmurs. "The principal tragedian of the Lord Chamberlain's Men."

"Cool," America says, and Burbage frowns. He's going to have to stop saying that. "I mean, hi, nice to meet you."

"Schnittelheim?" asks another man, a thin reedy kind of guy with weedlike blond hair. "A Swedish town, methinks."

"German, actually," America says. "But we've got a lot of Swedes. We've got a lot of everything."

"Thomas Pope," Will explains, "and John Heminges, and Augustine Phillips," nodding to the other two.

"And a fine fair lot we make," Kemp says, stretches his feet towards the fire. "Zounds, it's devilish cold."

"Devilish cold?" the man Will called Heminges asks. "But the devil is hot."

"Ay, but the devil deceives," Kemp says, "and tells us we shall face the flames eternal, and laughs when we stagger into his realms and beg him for a bit of brimstone to stave off the cold."

America laughs.

"Our German companion knows!" Kemp crows, thumps America solidly on the back. Looks like he's not mad about earlier.

"We were discussing thy Henry, Will," Burbage says.

"Yes, thy Henry," Kemp cuts in, "and thy Falstaff; you have spoke not a word of what business you mean to give him, and I promised the Curtain their Sir John again!"

Will's smile doesn't vanish so much as it sort of slips away, but either way America's pretty sure the temperature in the room drops a few degrees.

"By your leave, good friends," Will says, "I must see Master Jones to his bed. His journey has been a long one. After that, I am yours."

"Oh," America mutters as Will ushers him up the steps, "you have _no_ idea."

* * *

.

* * *

A/N: DIALECT NOTES! There are going to be a lot of those over the course of this fic. Obviously, I'm not writing this thing in full-out Elizabethan, because I'm not _that_ footnote-crazy, and quite frankly I don't trust myself to. I've tried to keep in a few elements of Elizabethan speech for flavor, though, and I'll explain those here.

First, the pronouns! Elizabethan pronouns are pretty similar to ours, except they had an informal "you" pronoun, _thou_. (It's like the _tu_/_Usted_ distinction in Spanish.) You use "thou" for inferiors and people you're close to in informal contexts, and it's a bit rude to thou people you aren't familiar with—so when the guards switch over to using thou with America, they're trying to put him in his place. Thou is declined like so:  
Subject: thou. (_Thou liest, shag-eared villain!_)  
Direct/indirect object: thee. (_I give thee thanks_, or _Let me clutch thee._)  
Possessive: thy (_thy face_), or thine before a vowel. (_thine eye_).  
They also had _ye_ for the second-person plural, though there's increasing usage of "you" for both singular AND plural second-person.

Verb endings are mostly the same, except for second- and third-person singular. Let's look at the verb to have:  
I have  
Thou hast/You have  
He hath  
We had  
You/Ye had  
They had  
I'm mostly omitting the –eth/th ending on the third person singular in this fic, because it reads weird to modern eyes, but it might crop up with a few words.

More glossary stuff:  
Cousin: _close friend (or relative)_  
God a'mercy: _god have mercy_.  
Most: _gets used like the modern intensifier "very."_  
Office: _job, duty._  
Passing: _exceedingly_.  
Sirrah: _form of address for commoners of inferior status, or an insult._  
Zounds: _God's wounds, a strong oath._

A pound, in Elizabethan times, was roughly equivalent to about $500 USD today, which means Jakes owes Burbage about $3500.

Also, Europe was going through a "Little Ice Age" during 1599, so it was _damn_ cold.

Find out more about actual Elizabethan accents at . (The dropped r's don't really come about until the Hanovers in the eighteenth century.)

You'll note that Falstaff, the character Will Kemp originated (and for whom the part was written), isn't in Henry V. The chapter after the next will help explain why.


	3. O What a Tangled Web We Weave

America shoves England aside, and England's foot naturally chooses the worst moment to catch on the steps. God knows how he manages to fall backwards, but he doesn't break his nose, though the back of his head smarts like nothing else. "America?" he gasps, once the blackness before him ceases to swirl.

No response. Has he run off on his own, the damned ingrate? He won't have gone far; England can't have blacked out for long, and America knows nothing of _this_ London, and it's beastly cold outside, and America always has hated the cold. He stands, favouring his other ankle. The fae hover about him, chittering, but withdraw when the next footstep shakes the floor above him.

England breathes out slowly, deliberately, and crawls back up the steps, barely places any weight on them at all. The thing upstairs shows no such caution. _Thud, thud, thud_—the sound drowns out England's heartbeat.

He nears the top of the steps, barely pokes his head through the opening for all the good it does. The dark remains thick as ever, and at best England can see shadows, shadows rising and falling and blurring. What he wouldn't do for a Hand of Glory—what he wouldn't do for any hint, any knowledge, any chance to prepare for what he's been thrust into.

Were America here, England reflects, no doubt he'd charge blindly into the darkness. Inwardly, England sighs. He ought to track him down, keep him from sowing the sort of disruption he seems to breed, and find some place for them to recover that isn't a dead man's quarters—

The fae shriek in alarm, and something slams into England's temple.

Again, it's a miracle he doesn't fall down the steps. He lands hard on his arse, but if it'll spare him a concussion, he'll take it. Groaning, he springs to his feet, rubs his head. Fuck, that blow was harder than he'd have liked, whatever struck him felt strong as America—

—and the thing that struck him seizes him by the neck and hauls him into the air, his legs flailing. He claws into the hand throttling him, slams his knees into every inch of flesh he can reach—so the thing's human, or shaped like one, the part of his brain not desperately searching for air remarks—but its grip doesn't waver. Stars explode behind his eyes, but it's hardly light he can see by—

"Light," he calls out with what breath he can manage, "Joan the Wad—one of you, damn it—"

The flare strikes him unsuspecting, but the effect's worse on the creature; it staggers backwards, and England slams his head into the thing's skull. It hurts him more than it hurts the creature, most likely, but it does groan and drop him, and England scrambles to his feet, the pixie-lights keeping the dark at bay.

Shaped like a man, he'd thought, and he was right: the creature _is_ a man, or rather was. The differences are subtle to the mortal eye, perhaps, but England sees them all. Its grubby flesh hangs from it like too-loose clothing in places, the reek of grave-dirt clings to it, and as the creature advances a worm threads through its eyeball.

"Merlin's beard," England breathes. This—this is wrong, this is terribly wrong. He remembers no creatures like this from Elizabeth's England, no, not even the revenants, and he doesn't need the fae clamoring at him to sense the wrongness the thing exudes with each step. Each quickening step, England might add. The thing's apparently sensitive to the light, but it's regaining its footing, and it lunges for England, who slams into the desk as he dodges. The cup crashes to the floor, and Spenser's body slumps forward.

England calls on the fae again, draws on their power to cast his wards as swiftly as he can, but the thing punches him in the gut before he can incant the last syllable. Good god, is it learning? Fuck. He gasps, ducks under the next blow only to find himself flattened against the edge of the desk, the thing reaching for him, the smell of death drawing nearer.

_Forgive me_, he thinks, and seizes Spenser's chair, shoves it—and Spenser—towards the creature. The chair topples onto it, and it's pinned by Spenser's corpse, however briefly—really, it's almost funny, England could laugh except the thought of it hurts his chest. Before the creature flings Spenser aside, England chants the strongest binding spell he knows, chants so quickly he almost slurs the syllables. It still isn't fast enough, the pixie-light is fading and the creature has him by the arm and is trying to pry it from its socket—he has no _time_, he needs to draw on what he has—

He bites his thumb until blood wells, smears it on the creature's chest, and commands, "My blood is the sea, and the sea calls—"

The creature's dragged back as though by a tide, and England slumps, barely breathing. What water remains in its body surges and swells until the thing looks ready to burst, its skin stretching thinner and thinner.

"_Hold_," England commands; the swelling stops, and the creature doesn't, _can't_ move with limbs that distended, but the tide drags at England's bones now. God, he'll pay the price for this later. For now, while he can still haul himself upright, he grabs the chair and bashes the thing about the head until it stops twitching, or until his arms stop shaking, or both.

"Bugger," he says, more raggedly than he'd like. He glances out the window: snow settles on the street, but not a person or Nation is in sight. Sodding hell, he's going to have to chase after America, isn't he. That damned—he doesn't know what he's doing, and with things as they are, England's not entirely sure he _can't_ get himself hurt, even with that strength of his, hurt or worse. No, _no_, it doesn't bear thinking about, he can't get morbid even if there are two fucking corpses in the room.

"Look for him," he says to some of the fae. "One of you, some of you, all of you—I don't care, however many of you it takes to canvass this city, I just want him found."

Perhaps a third of them draw closer to England, show him the glamour they wove to hide his fight from prying eyes. They spin the shadows into four silhouettes: three unremarkable, and one all too familiar.

England tells the lump in his throat to stuff it. No, America wouldn't let himself get abducted. Silly to even think of it. Utterly, wretchedly silly, America himself would decry it as preposterous.

Oh god, what _has_ he gotten himself into?

England swallows, says, "Find those men, and when you do, inform me immediately."

They depart, and he surveys the corpse—well, corpses—again. Spenser's he ought to treat with more dignity than this. Grunting, he hauls the dead man onto his bed, and though he can't quite get the covers to settle over him properly, he can at least cross his arms over his chest—

He stops, turns Spenser's wrist over. No, that wasn't a shadow, there _is_ something on the back of his left hand, a symbol burnt into the flesh. Not long before death, from the looks of it; England may not have France's intimate acquaintance with death, but he knows its signs well enough. This symbol, though, isn't familiar to him: a figure with eight points, scored through with lines too fine to make out in the still-dim light.

"Oh, Edmund," England breathes, "what did you do?"

Or what was done to you, he doesn't say. But the words linger at the back of his mind, unspoken.

He crouches by the creature's corpse next; now that it's _dead_ and not merely _un_dead, its appearance is less remarkable, considering. After the job England did on its head, it's difficult to make out any of the thing's salient features, but its hair seems to have a reddish tinge to it, one not entirely due to blood. Its clothes are common, if coarse, and England doubts that the man would have been anything to take notice of in life, but well, he's made a spectacle of himself in death, hasn't he.

And the dead aren't prone to doing that. England rubs his palms over his eyes, summons the fae, and sets to work. He found no geas on Spenser, but someone must have been controlling this creature's actions, dead men aren't often found lurking in the apartments of the living—God and the Grail, it _is_ almost funny.

"What magic made you walk?" he says, half to the fae, half to himself. "Old or new, human or not?"

The threads of power surrounding the creature are starting to dissolve, and England snatches at their strands and follows them to the source before they can. Enchantments for strength, yes, he recognises those, woven together with spells to grant the creature a base array of senses, but what's really remarkable is how they're all linked: an incantation serves almost as a warp for the other spells, strengthening each and strengthened by them in turn until they create a pattern, one that repeats and repeats. There's something almost iambic about it, in the order of when the magics peak and when they fall. Yes, it's deft work. He hasn't seen craftsmanship like this in centuries. England picks at the spells as delicately as he can until the pattern emerges as a stark phrase in his mind: _ius sine clementia_.

Justice without mercy.

He should know those words. He doesn't. Shit. England wipes off what's left of the blood on his thumb, gets back to his examination. He almost loses himself entirely in the subtleties until the fae tug at his sleeves and hair and point out the geas he'd been looking for, slapped over the beautiful spellwork like a crude overlay. Well, that's simple enough to unravel.

_Lie in wait for Spenser's guest_, it says. _When he arrives, kill him._

The temperature in the room plummets, or perhaps only England's stomach does.

He weaves a glamour to hide the creature as quickly as he can; it ought to hold for days, long enough for him to return and get rid of the body properly later. "See if you can trace those spells to their source," he tells the deftest among the fae, though at the rate the spells are fading, he hasn't much hope. Again, he rubs his eyes, massages his temples. He's chasing too many damned threads, and he's no idea how any of them are bound together.

Time to visit someone who might, then. And should America return to this house—well. England swallows again. The fae will tell him. Perhaps it's better America didn't witness this; doubtless he'd have interrupted England every half-minute to tease him. Besides, the walking dead give him nightmares.

(But if he had been there, if he had seen, and wondered, and closed his eyes and truly _listened_ for the fae—England can see his smile shift from astonished to delighted, almost as though America were there before him—)

He ought to go. The second cocks crow is almost upon him, and god help him if he's caught here then.

It's only as he creeps down the stairs, carrying Spenser's pewter cup and muttering Spenser's verses, that he recalls the origin of that phrase; he nearly drops the cup, but catches himself in time.

_Justice without mercy_.

"_His name was Talus, made of iron mould_," England recites, "_immoveable, restless, without end_."

The creature was flesh and not iron, but its similarities to Artegall's metal servant in _The Faerie Queene_ are—striking, if perverse. But why in god's name would Spenser weave a spell that led to his own destruction?

"This is Frankenstinian," England says, "and it sodding well isn't period-appropriate."

***

The hour at which England calls upon Sir Robert Cecil is indecent by any century's standards, even the twentieth's. Fortunately, Elizabeth's secretary of state sleeps lightly, if at all.

"I do wish you would use the door," Cecil says as England climbs through the window. "The draught is dreadful."

"My apologies; I had not the time."

Cecil grunts, makes an effort to climb out of bed. England bids him sit, his twisted back propped against the headboard for support—_my pygmy_, Bess used to call him, though England has never met a pygmy, he imagines they would look much like Sir Robert: stooped, hunchbacked, stout. But Greece's pygmies are said to be right fair and gentle, and one doesn't become England's spymaster by being gentle, even if the position is inherited. "What business is it that calls you at this hour?" Cecil asks.

"Thou needst not address me so," England says. "Thou knowest me well, I should think."

"'Tis my office, good Nation," says Cecil, inclining his head. "Thy dress is strange."

He laughs, briefly. "Wouldst not believe me if I told thee why I was attired so."

"Would I not? I have seen many a strange sight."

"And art about to see stranger, I shouldn't wonder," England says, takes his seat at last in Cecil's chair. The speech is coming back to him readily enough; he wonders how America's faring with it, if America's had to speak with anyone since he fled.

All right, he supposes he can crack a smile at that thought.

"What news does my Nation have for me?" Cecil asks. The man's awake now, and from the way his eyes dart England imagines he's cataloguing what he sees, sorting through the details of this visit and England's dress and god knows what else and filing them away for future reference. No doubt his father would be proud, were he here.

"What news I have I will share," England says. "But I require news of thee first. And a blanket, if thou canst spare one."

"Whatever my Nation requires." The set of Cecil's mouth can't quite be called a smile. He gestures to the trunk at the foot of his bed, which England sets to opening at once. His fingers have stiffened far too much from the cold already. "I am but his servant."

"Shows of humility suit thee ill," England says, snorting, and draws out the warmest-looking blanket of all of them, drapes it about his shoulders like a cloak. "Thou knowest me well, aye, and just as well do I know thee." Hell, he might well know Cecil better than he knows himself, as he's privileged to know several things about him that Cecil himself won't discover for a few years. (Perhaps he really ought to have a word with the man about the Gunpowder Plot—but no, there's time for that later, if at all.)

"Then thou knowest I am thy servant."

He laughs. "Robert Cecil," he says, "I know I can trust thee as far as I can throw thee."

For a moment he wonders if Cecil even knows the meaning of that expression—his eyes narrow, his mouth twisting smaller, but then he too bursts out laughing. "Ay, and thine arm is weaker than even mine."

"My arm is _not_ weaker than thine." England crosses them, flexing the muscle just enough. "When didst thou last draw a bloody longbow?" He might not have America's strength, but—

America. England casts an anxious look out the window, wraps the blanket tighter 'round his shoulders. The fae _did_ promise to send word when they found him, but few of them like to accompany England into Cecil's house; it reeks of iron, they tell him, iron and leather and other things crafted by men. Perhaps one of the fae found America, but fears to come in. Well, he oughtn't tarry long, then. Doubtless Cecil will want his sleep.

"I yield," Cecil says, holds his hands high, his smile not entirely gone. He ought to do it more often; it doesn't make him handsome, precisely, but it enlivens his face. "Truly, thou givest me more trust than some."

_Considering how far I _could_ throw you, yes, I suppose it's nothing to sneeze at_, England thinks, but doesn't say. There are jests, and then there's cruelty. "I trust thee to be what thou art."

"And what is that? Nay," he says, forestalling England, "needst not tell me, I have it from her Majesty and Essex oft enough, my Nation need not join in."

"Her Majesty and Essex are speaking again?" England asks, tries to recall his own history. This is January of 1599; they'll have been quarreling recently, though it's hardly a new state of affairs for them. Again, England sighs. He did warn Bess that young men were not nearly so biddable as she thought them, but they're all young men now, aren't they? Leicester, Walsingham, Warwick, Hatton: all dead now, and what have they left behind?

"Ay, of a sort," Cecil says, and doesn't mask the note of smugness in his voice. England doesn't begrudge him it. "He will not apologize for turning his back to her and reaching for his sword, she will not apologize for laying hands on him, but he is returned to court, and she has named him lord lieutenant of Ireland."

"This does not displease thee."

"The appointment is doomed," Cecil says. "The Irish posting is poison, and all the court knows it. And it will keep that impertinent lout from Her Majesty's side."

"Ay, it will," England agrees. "And it's an ill-favored post, I'll not argue with that." Certainly not after knowing where the post leads Essex: to the Tower of London, and the chopping-block.

"And a venture bound to break our banks. We cannot _sustain_ all these wars, my Nation—war with Spain's merchants, war in the Low Countries—"

"And war with my sister," England finishes. "I know, Cecil."

"Had we made peace with Spain before the rout at Blackwater—" Cecil shakes his head, and his hunched shoulders lower. "My father did try."

"He tried valiantly."

"Ay, and died in the midst of the trying, only for Essex to take my father's place by her Majesty's ear."

"She listens to thee," England says, resists the urge to rub his eyes. Oh, what a tangled web is woven here; he navigated it all once, knew the steps to the careful dance Bess played with her court and with the Continent, laughed with her as she withheld and redirected and teased, made thousands of promises that promised nothing. But those days were centuries ago—or were, at any rate, before something dragged him back. And if he _is_ as out of practise as he suspects, he's buggered.

And America with him. He steals another glance out the window. How long does it take the fae to search a city, even one London's size? It isn't as though America's any good at not drawing attention to himself.

Cecil snorts, scratches his back, winces as the wind beats itself against the window (now closed, thankfully). "Ay, when it suits her. Jesu, hast thou ever met such a woman?"

"Nay." Nor shall he again. He tears his gaze from the window. "But she is more than woman."

Cecil makes a dry bureaucratic sound, almost an _ah_. "Thou hast read Spenser's poem, then?"

"Of Gloriana?" England would smile, but he can't remember Spenser's verses without seeing that black mark seared onto the back of his hand. "Ay. 'Twas Spenser I came to thee about."

Cecil glances at his desk, not at the papers scattered atop it but at the drawer on the top right, the one with a false bottom where he keeps the bulk of his correspondences. "He has fallen out of favor with Essex, it seems, or Essex with him. He takes a room on Kings Street and sends letters to his friends at court, seeking loans—but none to Essex, and Essex has sent him nothing."

"'Twould do Spenser little good, were he to send it now," England says. "Spenser is dead."

"Merciful heavens," Cecil breathes, and what little colour there is in his face drains from it. "When?"

"Just this night."

"How?"

_Murder most foul_ certainly hasn't crept into the vernacular yet, so England leaves it at, "Murder."

"Thou art certain of it?"

"Ay," he says. "I smelt the poison in the cup, and he told me as much with his dying breath."

"Did he name his killer?"

England shakes his head. "He said only to find Will Shakespeare."

"The playmaker?"

"Ay, the playmaker. Thy father's playmaker," England says, and before Cecil's eyes can narrow any further, adds, "and he is _not_ the murderer."

"Were I to die, I would name the man who killed me," Cecil says, strokes his chin in thought. "And the playmakers are a violent lot."

"Not all of them—"

"Gabriel Spencer?" Cecil cuts in.

"The man came at him with a candlestick; it was self-defence."

"And Ben Jonson slew _him_ in self-defence?"

"Ben Jonson is, perhaps, too fond of dueling," England admits through gritted teeth.

Cecil's face is at its most placid, which still isn't very placid at all, not with how his eyes glitter, not with the edge of his nose gleaming sharp in the starlight. "To say nothing of Christopher Marlowe."

—England stands and slams Cecil's chair to the side, his knuckles trembling around the wood. "_You_ will do me the courtesy of leaving him be," he says, emphasizes the _you_.

"Would that he had done the same—"

"I said _enough_!" England shouts, and the glass rings with the force of it. Even the fae shrink back, and England's glare keeps them at bay until the pounding of his heart slows to something manageable. Fuck. He runs his fingers through his hair, looks askance. This has been a fucking awful day, he decides, so fucking awful that he can't think of a word strong enough to describe it. Well, if he runs into Will, he'll ask for his help on that.

_Kit's been dead for four hundred six years, you,_ he reminds himself. _Or six, now, but the result's the same, isn't it?_

"I will never understand your fondness for the theatres," Cecil says, shifting into the same mode of speech England adopted, and draws his blankets closer to his chin.

"Of course you wouldn't," England mutters, "you're a Puritan."

"Come again?"

"Pay it no mind."

"My Nation," Cecil says, a bit stiffly.

"I want your men to search for Spenser's murderer," he says, hesitates. "Yours, and Dee's."

Cecil blanches; it's visible even in the silver of the starlight, tinges even his beard ashen. "Dee, my Nation?"

"A mark was burnt on the back of Spenser's hand," England says, grimly, "and I was attacked by something that ought to have lain dead."

England only catches half of the oaths Cecil mutters under his breath, but he's impressed to see Cecil blaspheme so well. Why, he didn't know the man had it in him. "A goat, Cecil?"

"Never mind the goat," Cecil says, jerks his hand to the side as though to brush the matter away, "this is a matter of—"

"Sorcery, yes."

"I like not what that portends." Cecil's fingers curl tighter around the coverlet.

"Nor I, Cecil. Nor I."

Something tugs at the nape of his neck; England clasps his hand to his hair and pulls a pixie away. She chitters at him, too quickly at first, but once England bids her to slow her speech, he makes out her message.

"It appears I've found Will Shakespeare," he says, just as the cock crows for the third time. Dawn will be breaking soon. Cecil draws his eyebrows together, but says nothing. He's been privy to such conversations before, he knows how they work. "I will see what part he plays in this. Thank you," he tells the pixie, "and search for a young man—well, not a man, you know what I—hm?"

"I asked if the magics you saw were familiar to you," Cecil says.

God, England's tired, everything makes him want to laugh. The pixie still tugs at his sleeve; he bids her leave for the moment, doubtless he'll have a chance to learn more from her later. "Cecil, this is all most strange and most familiar all at once. Wouldst thou like to know a secret?"

"I am always in the market for new ones," he admits.

"I'm dressed as I am because _I_ am most strange and most familiar. I come from the future. Thy future," he continues, and perhaps he's only confessing this because it's been centuries since he's seen Cecil start at anything, but the start he gives is one of the best England's seen. "I am thy Nation, four hundred years hence."

"I have never known thee to jest so, my Nation," Cecil says, as though the words themselves feel strange on his tongue.

"It's no jest."

"Then why tell me this?"

"Because if thou speakst of it to anyone, they will think thee mad," England says quite conversationally. "And to illustrate something, perhaps. I have what I was within me still. I _am_ the Nation you know, and other things beside." Which would explain why he hasn't encountered a second version of himself, come to think of it.

"Ay," Cecil says, his brow still knotted.

"Thy father, likewise, is with thee still—but thou wilt be other things beside him."

At last, Cecil's brow softens. "An almost pagan sentiment, my Nation."

"Oh, it is."

***

Judging from the shouts swelling behind the tavern doors, Shakespeare and the Chamberlain's Men are either rehearsing or arguing. Knowing what England does of actors, he suspects both. Terrible etiquette to interrupt a rehearsal, but he does so regardless, seizes the door's handle with both hands and heaves it over.

"Sir Kirkland!" Thomas Pope cries, spotting him.

England smiles. "Well met, Master Pope."

Even Kemp rises from the table, script in one hand, ale in the other. "Welcome, Sir Kirkland!"

"Wait. Sir Kirkland?" America says, spinning around on the bench—

—**_America._**

"You!" England shouts.

"Me?"

"Master Jones?" asks Kemp, thumps America on the back to stop him from choking on whatever he's shoved in his fool mouth.

"Master _Jones_?" England echoes, the colour rising in his cheeks. Is this the fae's idea of a joke?

Well. Yes, most likely. Damned little buggers.

"Sir _Kirkland_?" America sputters, attempting to roll his eyes and hack up something at the same time, which fails spectacularly.

Augustine Phillips clears his throat. "Sir Kirkland?"

England gestures violently to America, means to say _what the fucking hell is he doing here?_ but all he manages is, "Master Jones!"

"Master Jones?" Phillips repeats, frowning.

"Yes! Master Jones!"

"I daresay," says Will Shakespeare, descending the steps and trying desperately not to laugh from the way the corners of his mouth twitch, "that explanations are in order."

* * *

.

* * *

A/N: Check out the last chapter for dialect notes.

Robert Cecil was kind of a dick, but he _was_ good at his job. He took over the position of secretary of state from his father, Lord Burghley, and the position of spymaster from Sir Francis Walsingham, and was Elizabeth's foremost advisor in the last years of her reign. He was also small and hunchbacked, so he didn't quite get the same respect his father got. He and Robert Devereux, the Earl of Essex really didn't get along. At all. They both vied for the queen's favor, and Bess liked to play them off each other when she could. At the time of the fic, she and Essex were on decidedly cool terms because Essex was a lot less willing to defer to her authority than her other favorites had been, and you can imagine how well she took that.

Also, there's this war with Ireland going on, and it's not going too well. Elizabeth is about to send Essex there as her lord deputy, and Essex is—well, you'll find out more about Ireland soon.

And Ben Jonson killed a dude. Actors really were violent back then. Didn't help that most of them knew how to fence and liked to drink.

The Faerie Queene is an unfinished epic poem by Edmund Spenser. The Faerie Queen herself is an allegory for Elizabeth I, and represents Glory; she's served by twelve knights, each of whom represent virtues (although only six of the knights' books were completed at the time of Spenser's death). There's a lot of contemporary political commentary in it, too. Check out Wikipedia for more information about Talus, as I can't link the relevant page here.


	4. Rehearse Most Obscenely and Courageously

"I should damned well say so," England says, and America can't remember the last time his eyebrows _bristled_ so much. "Where the hell did you—"

"Hey, I could ask you the same question! Or, well. I could asketh you, anyway."

Pope and Heminges and Phillips are sort of scooting away from the table as quietly as they can. Pretty darn quietly, it turns out, which isn't usually something America associates with actors. Will descends the steps cautiously, like he's feeling out for rotten floorboards, and America hears him give a few coughs that almost sound like laughs.

England blinks. "Asketh me?"

"Yeah, you know. Just talkingeth the talk."

"Am—Master Jones?"

"Yup?"

"Henceforth, please cease any and all attempts to _speak my language_."

"Hey, the guys get a kick out of it," America protests, looks to Kemp to back him up on that one.

Kemp guffaws, salutes America with his mug. "Ay, he's a talent for it, to be sure."

"What, for malaprops?"

England's eyebrows haven't relaxed much, if at all, and if he screws his face up any tighter it really might stick like that, so America cracks a grin and hopes England'll loosen up a little, too. "Guess so. Apparently I'm a German clown."

"A German—" England's eyebrows _do_ relax, only to shoot straight up to his hairline. "Oh good god."

"And apparently Germany has clowns." America shrugs. "The world's a strange and fascinating place, huh?"

"My head hurts," England groans.

"Too much too fast, huh?" England's never been good with that kind of thing, though to be fair, he's—well, assuming this all isn't some kind of dream, and since America woke up this morning to find Will snoring beside him and a really fragrant chamber pot at the foot of the bed, it's got to be a really _complicated_ dream, because America doesn't usually dream in his dreams. Anyway, to be fair to England, he's lived through all this before (assuming he's not a figment of America's imagination), and if anyone gets to complain about too much too fast, it should be America. Hell, he's wearing a doublet.

"No, really," England groans again, his head in his hands, his elbows starting to skid off the table, "feels as if—God's teeth—it's going to split in sodding two—"

"En—whoa there, Sir Kirkland," America says, springs up and catches England by the elbows before he sags out of his seat entirely, "let's, uh, let's getteth you upstairs." His color doesn't look so good, either; America's used to England being pale, but not this kind of milky whiteness, like there's yellow seeping in underneath.

"Jesu," Phillips says; Heminges sucks air in through his teeth.

"What ails him?" Will asks from the foot of the steps, his smile vanishing.

"I know not, man," America says, "but I don't like it."

"I can walk," England says and tries to struggle forward, but his knees cave in. "Oh, bugger, of _all_ the—they called in my debt, oh _hell_—"

"You know what he's talking about?" America asks Will in an undertone.

Will shakes his head.

"Me either. Sorry, guys," America says, raising his voice, "we'll be back in a second, hold on, Will, I've got to get him up yon stairs—"

England grabs at America's collar, and even if his hand's shaking his grip's strong enough. "He—he ought to hear this," he whispers.

"Right. Will, can you give me a hand?"

"Oh for the love of—" England protests, but not before Will says "Ay," and scoops England up from under the knees. America wraps his arms under England's shoulders, and the two of them haul him up the stairs stretched out between them.

"I hate you both," England mutters once they've gotten him in the room and hoisted him onto the bed, "and—is that a doublet?"

"What, this?" America can't help but grins, twists to the side to give England a better look. He definitely fills out a doublet better than he did when he was a kid; it fits him just tight enough, and the laced-in sleeves billow a little, but not in a way that makes his arms look like balloons. The Venetians don't billow quite as well, but they're better than the onion things, and at least he doesn't have to wear a codpiece with them. He's mostly stopped itching under his collar, too. "Not bad, huh? Will asked if I wanted to swap out my glasses for something more fashionable, but I said no."

"No," England says; something slides over his eyes for a moment, some kind of shadow, but it passes before America can ask. "No, it isn't bad. Where—ah, sodding Christ—where did you get them?"

"I borrowed the clothes from Burbage," Will explains, kneeling by England's bedside. "My Nation, what sits ill with thee?"

America does a double-take.

"Of course he knows," England says, with something between a sigh and a groan. Which makes sense, America has to admit.

"And Master Jones is another of thy kind, I assume?" Will asks, nodding to him.

America's double-take is a lot smaller this time, but no point hiding it, is there? "Yeah. I'm—I guess I'm just America, now." He's not going to get the United States part until—Jesus Christ, not for another two hundred years, almost. The room's plenty cold already, but America swears it drops a few degrees.

Will eyes him appraisingly, strokes his stubble with his thumb. "You are not, perhaps, what I would have pictured of that land."

"Yeah, uh. Technically, you're right. It's complicated," America says, scratches behind his ear. Will's taken the Nations bit well enough, but how the heck is he going to take the time travel? Hell, America's _still_ not sure he believes it. He shouldn't believe it. Every rational instinct he has tells him not to, and yet. "So. Where were you, anyway?"

"I could ask you the same." England winces, sinks deeper into the bed. "While _you_ gallivanted about with Master Shakespeare, _I_ had to wrangle with a walking corpse."

"Wait, what?"

"A walking corpse."

"Yeah, you said that. England," America says, his voice cracking, "are you telling me you fought a _zombie_?"

England looks thoughtful. Well, thoughtful and pained. "That's as good a name for it as any."

"Are zombies even supposed to exist?"

"Not this kind. Not now. That's what worries me."

"Forgive my intrusion," Will says, coughing, "but what, pray tell, is a zombie?"

* * *

  
"—so, you know, the whole 'shoot it in the head! Shoot it in the head!' thing suddenly doesn't work so well because you guys aren't exactly packing shotguns and I wouldn't trust them even if you were, no offense, and breaking out the swords kind of goes against the number one rule of zombie fighting, which is not letting them get close enough to bite you—England, did it bite you?"

"No," England says, "and you're hysterical."

"I'm not hysterical! You're telling me a zombie killed Spenser—"

"I said I didn't think the creature killed him."

America crosses his arms. "Okay, so he got killed by cultists. Who are magicking up zombies or something. And can I just take a moment to say I still don't believe I'm actually saying this?"

"Noted, and duly," Will says, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"You seem to be taking all this pretty well."

Will doesn't quite shrug. "There are stranger things in heaven and earth…"

"Hang on, have you written that play yet?" America asks.

"Come again?"

"Never mind." Guess the guy cribs from real life a lot. "Okay, so we know someone poisoned Spenser, we know there's some crazy magical shenanigans—England, stop smirking, aren't you supposed to be sick?"

"Oh, I am," England says, massages his temples. "Continue."

"And we _think_ Spenser might be mixed up in the whole zombie business somehow. Oh, and your queen's getting old and there's like a zillion people who're gunning for the top spot now."

"In so many words, yes," England says. "What we _don't_ know is why Spenser wanted to meet with thee, Will."

"Alas, would that I knew," Will says, "but the message said naught of it, only bid me to come at midnight at his lodgings, and ensure I was not followed."

"So I guess you guys didn't usually do the whole meeting-up-at-midnight thing."

Will shakes his head. "Nay."

"And you have no idea? None?"

"For god's sake, America, he said he doesn't." England tries to push himself up on his elbows, but flops back down. "I'd have better luck asking the fae to scry—"

"Oh, Jesus, England, not your little fairy friends again—"

"The fae have said naught to me on the matter," Will says, and America's mouth snaps shut mid-sentence, then falls open again.

"The—wait. What?"

"The fae," Will repeats, nonplussed. "I speak to them, sometimes, and a good thing, for they told me to find you."

"You never told me you saw them!" England says, points an accusing finger at Will.

Will doesn't quite shrug. "Thou never didst ask."

"Great." America rolls his eyes. "Everyone's delusional."

"You accept the zombies readily enough, why not the fae?"

"Because zombies aren't _magic_."

"These are."

Okay, maybe in some mythologies, America'll concede that much even if he won't tell England so. "Plus, I can see them."

"You could see the fae if—"

"Gentlemen," Will says, coughing, and even if he _is_ a little delusional America listens. Hey, artists are supposed to be a little loopy, right? "Pray pardon, but we must not tarry long; the Lord Chamberlain's Men are meant to rehearse at the house of our patron today, in preparation for our performance before the queen ten days' hence."

"Sweet," America says, "which play?"

"A Midsummer Night's Dream." Will smiles. "I am fond of it, as is Her Majesty."

"Dude, I love that one."

Will laughs, a little startled. "It has reached the far shores of America?"

"Well, England gave it to me," which is technically true. From a cultural exchange perspective. "Speaking of. You up for the trip?"

"I suppose I'd best be," England says, rolls onto his side. At least that's successful. "I should talk to Cecil again."

"And hey, free show, right?"

"It is only a rehearsal," Will says, "and the space is not so grand, but ay, you are welcome if you wish it."

"You're a bro." America claps him on the back. "All right, let's get this wagon train moving. England, you need us to carry you down the stairs?"

"Don't you fucking dare."

* * *

Turns out the rehearsal space is a mansion. "Cecil's brother's is nicer," England grumbles from the bale of hay he rests on, but America thinks the house they're pulling up to is plenty swank: it's buffeted by a cluster of shops and stables, the gables jut up and pierce the skyline, and the timbers overlap and form this cool kind of lattice on the walls.

"Looks better than the cart, anyway," America says just as it jolts and sends his head colliding with the canvas. The cart's drafty as hell, too, he thinks, rubs his arms briskly. Yeah, the hay insulates some of it, and yeah, the new clothes help, but way too much air whistles through the cracks for America's liking.

To be fair, though, the canvas muffles the smell.

"Are we there yet?"

"Soon, god willing." England groans, sits upright and brushes the hay from his hair.

"Good, 'cause I'm getting bruises in places I didn't know—"

The cart jerks to a halt, and America dives facefirst into the nearest pile of hay. At least England doesn't laugh, probably because he's too busy saying "Oh _bugger_ ow bloody fucking Christ—"

"How does the journey's end find you? Well, or ill?"

America spits out a mouthful of hay and grins weakly at Will. "Well. Mostly. Might need to make a pit stop at yon privy, though." Or at yon vomitorium, but America's pretty sure that's Roman and not English at all.

"Ay, the roads are rough," Will says, helps the two of them stumble out of the cart (England sports a lump on his head the size of an egg) and towards the door. "Rough, and as like to bar travelers passage as they are to admit them."

The rest of the company's busy unloading from the wagons, though there's not as much stuff as America'd expect. Henry Condell's piling a bunch of dresses into the arms of one of the apprentices, Kemp tucks an ass's head under his arm, and is Burbage carrying around a beard? Looks like it. "'Tis only rehearsal," Will explains when America asks, "and we travel light."

America nods, draws his cloak tighter. Snow dusts the grounds and roofs and even part of the path; it's not quite a Christmas card effect, and the house is too big to call the picture _cozy_, but it brings a kind of warmth to America's fingers and toes. That's the only kind of warmth he'll be getting for a while, looks like, considering how the cold of the flagstones indoors shocks him through his boots. "Jesus," he says, grits his teeth. "You'd think whoever owned this could pay to put in a few more fireplaces."

"Ay, and will, an I've consigned this one to dust." A hunchbacked man steps out of the stairwell, surveys the hall with a snort. "'Twill have walls of stone, not the mud of a rude cottage."

"Sir Robert Cecil, Lord Burghley and Lord Chamberlain after his father," Will says, makes a leg. "And our most esteemed patron."

"Master Shakespeare," Cecil says, nodding, and stops when he sees America. "And your companion?"

"May I present Master Alfred Jones, a German clown of no small repute?" Will doesn't kick America, exactly, but the way he lifts his eyebrows suggests he might if America doesn't make a leg like he did. America sighs. Part of him knows the "I don't bow" conversation's going to be more trouble than it's worth, especially since Voltaire and Locke haven't even been born yet, but still, the idea chafes.

"Jesu, Kirkland," Cecil says before America can decide either way, "you look a fright."

"Payment for last night's sins," England says. "Come, let us be seated, before I pay for them more."

America takes his elbow and steers him towards the benches the apprentices are placing at the other end of the hall. England doesn't even grumble much about it. The benches sit opposite a screen, and from the shadows America guesses the actors are getting dressed back there, but other than that, the stage area's bare: no furniture, no props, no big set pieces in the back. Okay, those _would_ be hard to fit in the wagon, but when America asks England says (between winces) that they always do plays like that. "The stage alone isn't equal to the task, remember?"

He does. Seems like half a year ago, but he does. America shivers, not just from the drafts whistling through the hall. The temperature and the smells are already kind of turning into background noise in his head—not gone or anything, but if he noticed every reeking street or every blast of cold air, he'd barely have time for anything else, so it's not stuff his brain really has to comment on anymore. It's not acclimation, necessarily, it's more—his mind can only handle so much at a time, you know? And he'd rather think about the stuff he actually has to think about.

Of course, that's like two million things right there, but hey. He waves to Will as Will steps behind the screen. Maybe the play'll take his mind off things.

* * *

It's nice, after a day of the Ren Faire from hell, to run into something he knows. And he knows Midsummer. Not his very favorite of Shakespeare's—of Will's, jesus, _he knows Shakespeare now_, that thought still makes his mind blank for a few seconds—but it's up there. They're doing the first scene with the rude mechanicals, the one where they're casting Pyramus and Thisbe, and the actors are a lot shoutier than actors have been for the past hundred years at America's place, but they're still fun to watch. They're a lot more active, too: they bound across the stage, whack each other upside the head, even tumble and perform a few snatches of dances when it's called for. Burbage is running the rehearsal, technically, but he hasn't done much other than correct a few bits of blocking and yell "Thy lines, Kemp, keep to thy lines!"

From the way Will's grinding his teeth next to America every time Kemp goes off-script, it sounds like Burbage isn't the only one thinking that.

Kemp's funny enough, America guesses. He knows what he's doing; not a step of any of his dances is out of place except for the ones that are supposed to be. But when America watches him, he knows it's him. It's not that you don't get that with any of America's actors anymore, especially with the stars, but it's still a little strange to see. Also, America knows Bottom's supposed to cut the other characters off, but America's not sure the other actors' grumbles about getting cut off are, well, acting.

"Well yes, I daresay they're annoyed," England says when America asks about it, "it isn't pleasant to be interrupted—"

"Hang on, is he doing a jig?"

England groans.

Will drums his knuckles on the bench.

"The raging rocks and shivering shocks shall break—" Kemp pauses, then thunders, "the locks!" like it's the best rhyme ever invented. He's not done, though. "That keep our co—"

"Kemp!" Burbage shouts.

"Marry, only a bit of improvisation," Kemp says. Will keeps drumming his knuckles: tap, tap, tap.

"Nay, faith, let me not play a woman; I have a beard coming," says the actor playing Flute. Kemp yanks on it, laughing, and almost drowns out the next line.

"You shall play it in a mask, and you may speak as small as you will," Quince begins.

"An I may hide my face, let me play Thisby, too," Kemp pipes up again, "for Henry Condell's grown a beard, and can do't no longer."

Condell screws his mouth up like he's swallowed a lemon, and Thomas Pope swats his arm. Condell's got nothing on the way Will's mouth tightens, though.

"What of Burbage, ye ask, Burbage the great? Ay, too great to girdle into a gown—picture, if ye will, Heracles wrestling such an Amazon." Kemp tugs at the air, grunts, mimics wiping sweat from his brow. "Ay, even his great strength is overcome in trying to wrest it loose!"

America almost laughs, but it dies in his throat when he gets another good look at Will's face. If Will presses his lips together any more tightly, he'll never be able to get them unstuck. America clears his throat a little, shifts in his seat. England's not really watching the performance, either; he glances from Kemp to Will to Cecil and never settles too long on one.

"And as for William Shakespeare," Kemp says, drags each syllable out until he almost drawls it, "God a' mercy if I ever met a woman with so many words to her! For sure I'd stitch her mouth up that the air might erupt from her other end, which I would indeed welcome—"

"That will do," Will says.

"I cry thee mercy," Kemp says, his broad braying tone evening out, "but I am not yet finished."

"Indeed, thou art." Will doesn't stand, but his fingers clench in his lap. America eyes them both warily: Will's younger, yeah, but there's not one unmuscled line of Kemp's body, and Will's not a stick or anything but America'd still be more worried about him breaking his wrist on a punch than he'd be about the guy on the other end of it.

Kemp smiles, crooked. "Thou wilt end the scene so soon, before all thy words are spoken?"

"These are not my words." Now Will stands, and America scootches to the side to give him room.

"Ay, thy words, thy words, thy words, always thy words with thee and no thought for aught else!" Kemp stomps, and wow, the shocks from that ripple up through the legs of America's bench. "_Thy_ play, _thy_ theatre, _thy_ company—"

"I did not think thee a child, to squall and stamp thy foot," Will says, each word so clipped it almost sounds like he's speaking in verse. "I see I was mistaken."

Cold as it is, America can't help but mouth _burn_.

"We shall to the next scene!" Burbage says, strikes the bench with a stick. "Condell, take thy place—"

"Next scene, next scene!" America claps his hands together, reaches over to elbow England in the ribs and get him to do the same. "Yeah, movingeth right along, this dothn't bear dwelling on, let's see what you guys have to show us."

"I said I was not finished!" Kemp shouts, glowers at the rest of the cast onstage with him. They've crept towards the wall at right, half-on and half-off where the stage is supposed to be. "Why, what fine players are we, to yield without complaint to a playmaker's fancies!" He jabs his finger at Will, and America can't remember if "quivering with rage" is one of Will's phrases or not, but if it is and he hasn't already come up with it, America thinks he knows where it came from. Even Kemp's nostrils are twitching, shuddering with each indignant sniff.

"His words, aye," Kemp continues. "What are such words? Give the crowds a sporting afternoon, and they will come, words or no."

"They will come, ay," Will says. He hasn't sat back down, but he's still, composed where Kemp's bristling all over. "But they'll not see a play if they do."

Well! If nothing else, this is some pretty riveting drama right here. None of the other actors have left their seats, and Burbage might've shouted for that scene change but he's not trying to usher the next set of actors on. He grips his stick instead, lets it hover just inches above the floor. Cecil strokes the side of his jaw, and England finally nudges America back and murmurs, "Watch."

"Trust me," America whispers, "I am."

"I propose," Will says, and this is the loudest America's heard him speak, "that we players, and you our audience," he adds, nods to America and England and Cecil, "and all who join us in this venture are bound together in partnership, and that our journey will not succeed if we are not all set in purpose to make it so. All of us." He eyes each actor in turn, and America swears he shivers when Will finds him. "The meanest groundling and greatest tragedian share a stake in this: theirs to shoulder should we fail, and theirs to reap should we triumph. And we _can_ triumph—if only we are generous, if only we welcome our friends alongside us, if only we do not claim more than is our due, for the rewards are all the greater if we wait.

I ask for no more than is my due. My words are but a frame; they will not live if you do not let them. Let them, then, I pray you. Give me but that, and your generosity shall be repaid forever."

America can't remember the last time it felt so _good_ to stand and applaud. England's on his feet right after, and god, he's practically glowing, his cheeks reddening with—is that pride? Honest-to-god pride?

It's just that England doesn't seem to be _proud_ of stuff nearly as often as he used to. Which, granted, isn't always a bad thing, but there's something about the way he smiles when he thinks no one's looking, the way his mouth softens—

"Together, then," Burbage says, and America and England echo: "Together!"

"Together!" says Henry Condell, and Phillips and Pope and Heminges and all the apprentices aren't far behind: "Together!"

Is it cheesy? Yep. Is it sports-movie cheesy? You betcha. Are there inspirational violins swelling in the background? Well, if they have those in this time period. Is America's chest still getting a little tight? Hell yeah.

"And thee?" Will asks, turns to Kemp, who's watching the cheers with a frown so deep it's practically a furrow in his face. "Wilt join us, or nay?"

"I am a fool by trade, not by disposition," Kemp says. "Thou wouldst have me cease to jig, and mouth only the lines you set down. Any fool could do it—one by disposition, not by trade."

"Sheesh," America mutters. "Diva."

England's struck by a fit of coughing.

"I would not call thee so," Will says, quiet but firm.

Kemp snorts. "I'faith, thou hast already. I like not this new theatre, and I like not that an upstart crow seeks to teach my craft to me."

"A what?" America asks in an undertone.

"It isn't complimentary," England says.

"No shit, Sherlock."

"It is not thy craft I dispute," Will says, and America hears the edges of his voice start to fray, "but thy craft at the expense of mine, and of thy companions'? Ay, that I dispute."

"Do they dispute it?" Kent rounds on the actors clustered by the wall, the shareholders gathered in the audience. England's coughing fit must be contagious, because they're all hiding their mouths in their hands or sleeves, looking sideways, paying an awful lot of attention to the floor.

"In good earnest, Kemp," Phillips says, "it _can_ get in the way."

"Oh, ay, and shall no longer, by God." Kemp barrels past Will, knocks into his shoulder and strides through the benches they've set up, pushing them out of the way, too. "From this day hence, I'll trouble you no further."

Kemp's a different kind of actor than the rest, though; he halts just long enough in the stomping-off, like he's waiting for the others to rush forward and fall all over him. "Dude," America says, "are you going or not?"

England chuckles.

"What's so funny?"

"You used to do the same when you were small," England says. "Stomp off in a huff, and wait for me to catch up with you."

"Yeah, but he's like forty. And I was like a hundred." America pauses. "It's different. You know what I mean."

"Her Majesty, Kemp," Cecil calls.

Kemp's through the thicket of chairs by now; he pauses before the door. "Ay, what of her?"

"You would not slight Her Majesty by refusing to perform before her at Richmond, surely?" Cecil doesn't turn around, just tents his fingers up, props his chin on them. It's very mastermind-ish of him.

"Enough perform before Her Majesty that I would not be missed," Kemp says, snorting, and wrenches the door open. "She has fools enough in her seraglio."

As the door bangs shut and blasts cold air in its wake, America'll say this much for Kemp: guy knows how to make an exit.

"Uh, are you allowed to sass the queen?" he asks England.

"No, and were someone to write that down, Kemp would find himself in a great deal of trouble." England sighs. "Or he would have ten years ago, at any rate. The system's—oh, it's complicated."

Before America can ask just how complicated, Burbage says, "Well, we find ourselves short a Bottom."

"Robert Armin, perhaps, could learn the part," Pope suggests.

Burbage shakes his head, his moustache drooping. He reminds America of a walrus. A really doleful walrus, all sagging flesh and bristling whiskers. "Robert Armin is in Deptford for a fortnight; we perform before Her Majesty in ten days."

"And I need not mention the black mark it will be if you do not," Cecil says, tugs at his beard with a frown. "To say nothing of the black mark on _me_. I wonder—"

But he doesn't finish it.

"We are not without our clowns," Will says.

"One of the apprentices? Ay, but they're too fresh for Bottom—"

"Not the apprentices," Will says, and suddenly everyone's staring at America, which he's normally more than okay with, but the actors are more looking him over like he's lunch.

England's eyebrows vanish into his hairline.

"Ay," Phillips breathes, "thou _didst_ say he was a clown."

"Me?" America says. It's squeakier than he meant it to be.

England's progressed from coughing fit to outright choking next to him. "No," he says, sputtering, his ears redder than America's seen them in a long time. "No. Absolutely—" He recovers enough to cough again, and put the period accent back on. "Surely you jest."

"I do not jest," says Will. "He is, after all, a German clown of no small skill."

"Yeah, I am, remember?" America says, stretches his arms over his head and hops to his feet. Now that the initial _the hell?_'s faded, his stomach's fluttering in a good way. "So—you mean it? You want me?"

"Ay," Will says, at the same time England says, "_No_."

"Dude, what's with you?"

"You're—" England scoffs, grabs America's billowing sleeve and yanks him down. "Are you mad?" he whispers.

"No, but I'm _getting_ mad," America says. "They asked me to play Bottom! _William Shakespeare_ asked me to play Bottom!"

"He isn't the company manager!"

"Ay, but I am," Burbage says, "and the plan is most pleasant. Master Jones, you can learn a side of some hundred lines quickly, aye?"

"You bet." He grins. "I'm a most fast study." Plus, Midsummer's been performed at his house for what, at least two centuries? It's not that he remembers every line and every word from everything his people have ever written or read or seen, but the stuff that keeps circulating, that sticks with him. He's got Bottom's lines floating around somewhere in his head, he just needs to pin them down.

"It isn't only the lines, it's the God-be-damned style," England says, slaps his palms on the bench and pushes himself to standing. "It's the juggling, the dancing, the improvisation, the singing—hell, it's the way you walk across the stage. Forgive me, friends," he says to the company, "but he knows not these tricks of stagecraft, not of the sort a London audience is accustomed to seeing, how do you expect him to do his job?"

"He could speak the lines I have writ," Will says, perfectly straightfaced. "A novel thought, to be sure."

America tries to figure out how you say _owned_ in Elizabethan.

England sputters. He's been doing enough gesturing and ranting to make any actor proud, but now he slows it down, rakes his fingers along his scalp and groans. "You don't understand—"

"I do," Will says, and draws himself taller; it's not crossing his arms or putting his hands on his hips, but he's not brooking any argument. "And I would be honored were Master Jones to play with us before Her Majesty. Perhaps we shall show her something new."

"Ay," Cecil says, and America gives the guy a grateful grin.

"This is mad," England says, shaking his head. "This cannot come to good. You do realize you have to teach him a lifetime of craft in ten days?"

"It's not like I'm starting from nothing," America shoots back. "I know what actors do."

"Yes, but not this type of acting, you really don't—"

"So I'll do something new. See what works." He grins, pounds Will on the back. Will starts at first, then smiles, rubs his shoulder a little. "He trusts me, and it's his play. Why can't you?"

"It isn't trust, it's—" But England's even worse at finishing sentences than Cecil; he coughs, clears his throat, but nothing comes out. "Oh, never mind."

America tries not to, but _it's—_ itches in the back of his mind. It's what? It's England, it's not like the guy's used to censoring himself. "I'll be fine," he says. "Worst that happens, the queen chucks a rotten tomato at me or something."

"I'd hope that Her Majesty's courtiers would have better manners than to throw food before their queen," England mutters.

"Not if she starts it, I'll bet." They're almost in the middle of the playing area, America realizes, and the other players have formed a semicircle around them, watching and whispering. Whoops. He bends closer to England's ear. "Look, I'll hang out here for a little, learn some of the ropes, you go and talk stuff over with Quasimodo?"

The corners of England's mouth twitch, even though it looks like he's trying to pin them down. "Oh, I suppose. Don't call him that within earshot, though."

"I have been called worse," Cecil says, and jeez, how'd he sneak up behind America like that? He's like Russia. If Russia were short. Which America can't picture at all, come to think of it.  
"So, uh. No offense?" America grins. It doesn't quite stick. Fortunately, England takes Cecil by the arm and leads him off, muttering something about Spenser's correspondence. He shoots America one last look, somewhere between exasperated and—smiling? Is he smiling? Really?

Phillips whacks him on the back, snaps him out of it. "And now, Master Jones," he says, with maybe more dramatic relish than is called for, "thou'rt ours."

* * *

"Watch," Burbage says, strikes the stones with his staff and strides across the stage, chest thrown out. America follows behind, but Burbage whacks him in the ankles. "Learn by example first, and mind my feet."

The apprentices giggle. Oh, well let's see how good _they_ are at it, anyway.

The points of Burbage's shoes almost flap along the floor, and each step rings out in the hall. He doesn't stomp, just bears his weight down until the floor trembles from it. He cuts a straight line across the stage, not wandering from his path at all.

"Like so," Burbage says, "but moreso," and as soon as America sets foot onstage, he barks, "Nay, do not stomp! Thou'rt a clown, not an elephant!"

America sighs, starts over, tries to get his feet to do the flappy thing. This is going to be a long day.

* * *

"Dost thou tumble?" Pope asks him.

"Depends on what kind of tumbling we're talking about. If thou knowst what I mean," America adds, hopes people have been exposed to the wonders of that phrase. If not, well, he's got some educating to do.

Pope chuckles, but says, "Acrobatics, Master Jones."

"Oh, like somersaults and—" Crap, how do Elizabethans say _stuff_? "—the rest?"

"Ay." Pope vaults onto his toes, performs a quick handspring across the floor. America whistles, and Pope straightens with a little bow. "Come, Master Jones."

"You got it," America says, jogs over to the wall and gets a little running start before he launches into his cartwheel. His palms smack the floor solidly one after the other, good, now all that's left is to land his feet—

—which go flying in opposite directions and send him sprawling to the ground.

"We use mats in Germany," he croaks when his breath returns.

* * *

"Surely you juggle," Phillips says.

America says of course he does.

The ball leaves a dent in his toe. Ouch. Haven't these people heard of hackey-sacks?

* * *

"Thou dost not juggle, thou dost not tumble, and thou dost not walk the stage as though thou knowst it," Burbage says, slumps into his chair and mops his brow. "Truly, German clowns are a strange lot."

"He has not yet exhausted his tricks," Will says, and if he's nervous he doesn't show it. "Come, Master Jones—there is a song in the scene where Titania falls in love with Bottom. Will you sing it for us?"

"Not sure what the melody is," America says.

"Pick one that suits, and set the words to it." Will smiles, proffers a side. "I trust my words shall fit the tune."

Okay, yeah, he thinks, scanning the side Will's handed him, he doesn't know this at all, and no songs are popping into his head, either. He can read music, or fake it well enough, but there's no staff here, no notes, just the words and the rhythm America finds in them when he mutters the lines under his breath.

Actually.

He can't ask the actors to lay down a beat for him, but he can drop to his knees and start to tap out the rhythm on one of the benches, glance at the side for reference. It's barren as far as a backup track goes, but hell, he can improvise later.

"Why does he play upon the bench?" Heminges asks, but Pope shushes him, and Will's eyes widen.

America doesn't think any of his people have ever rapped anything like _The ousel cock so black of hue, with orange-tawny bill_, but hell, there's a first time to everything, and it's got a good beat to it, solid and strong. "The throstle with his note so true," he continues, hits _note_ so hard the bench rattles underneath him. "The wren with little quill."

He accelerates the beat on the bench, double-times it. "Can you do that?" he asks Phillips. "Bang out that rhythm?"

"Ay," Phillips says; he blinks, but kneels, and pretty soon he has a solid grip on the beat, even adds a few improvisational flourishes to the end of the measure, _duh-duh-DAH, duh-duh-duh-DAH-duh-duh_.

America picks up Burbage's stick and pretends it's a standing mic. "The finch, the sparrow and the lark," he shouts into it as fast as he can without losing the rhythm. The beat surges through him, and he taps his toes, lets that motion transform his whole body, slouch his shoulders and roll his hips. Time to pick it up faster, faster until he's almost spitting the words. "The plain-song cuckoo gray, whose note full many-a-man-doth-mark-and-dares-not-answer-nay!"

He thrusts the pole in the air, grinning, and looks at the rest of the company.

Will's the first to applaud, and then the rest join in, stumbling over the beat.

_What do you know_, America thinks, _sometimes modern adaptations work._

* * *

"I," America announces, staggering into the room, "am sore. Very very sore."

"Exhausting, isn't it?" England says, glances up from his desk. He's got at least eight envelopes scattered over it—maybe more? America squints, but the daylight's fading fast, and the soft orange glow of the window and duller yellow light of the candles still don't add up to all that much. He moves closer; ink's smeared over England's hands, and wax shavings glisten on his nails.

"Jeez," America says. "Did you lose a fight with a letter or something?"

"No. Or yes, perhaps." England slumps forward in his chair, and now America gets a better look at the dark hollows under his eyes. "Cecil managed to get copies of Spenser's correspondence—no, don't ask me how, I'd rather not know—and I've sifted through them, but." He grimaces, cracks his neck. "Pitiful, really, that such a man should have had to resort to beggary. And worse still that none aided him."

"None of them?" America asks. They can't share the desk, exactly, but America hovers over the end, snatches up a few of the letters. The handwriting's spidery and slanted, and America knows the things that look like f's are supposed to be s's, but most of the other letters are squashed so close together he can't make them out at all.

"So far," England says. "I've a few letters yet to read. And none from his patron Essex, which is strange."

"Did they fight or something?"

"Not to my knowledge, but I don't know a damned thing, apparently." Almost growling, England seizes a handful of letters and sweeps them off the desk. "The Irish rebels burned his home to the ground, made off with anything of value, and when he set foot on English soil again, his country let him starve to death, unknowing."

"Hey," America says, rests his hand on England's shoulder. "He didn't starve, remember? He was murdered."

"That's not much of a kindness," England says, but doesn't try to push America's hand away like usual. Tentatively, America gives his shoulder a squeeze, and England doesn't snap about that, either.

"God, this is a mess," England murmurs, his eyes half-closing. "And I don't know if it's a better or worse one than what I remember."

"I'd say the zombies make it worse," America says, then—"Hey. England."

"Hm?"

"What if they weren't just being dicks?"

England frowns.

"The guys Spenser wrote to. What if he was persona non grata for some reason—or what if someone else was making sure help _didn't_ get to him?"

"Quite the conspiracy theory," England says, but he's listening.

"England, we're already dealing with zombie cultists, I think it's safe to say there's a conspiracy going on."

"I can't believe that phrase is _sensible_."

"Strange times, my friend. Anyway. Point is, Spenser knew who was after him, right? We think? But someone offed him before he could tell Will or anyone else?"

"Yes."

"So presumably the guy's been doing _something_ beforehand. Threatening him somehow. Spenser knows he's in danger."

England nods, his expression darkening. "And such threats would hardly be effective were Spenser able to reach outside help."

"And right before he's going to meet up with Will to spill the beans, he dies. Whoever killed Spenser knew Will was coming. They were watching him." The back of America's neck chills. "They were probably reading his letters."

England stares at the envelope balled up in his fist, his lips parted, barely breathing at all.

"So how much do you trust Cecil?"

"That," England says, tears the envelope open and holds the letter to the light, "is a damned good question."

America bends over, squints at the handwriting. He wishes this place had—not even computers, but typewriters. Those would help. Well, he guesses they had type_setters_, but who's going to go to one of those to get a letter printed up?

"This—" England frowns. "This is addressed to John Dee."

"Who?"

"Her Majesty's astronomer and court magician. Bit of a mad old twat, but I was rather fond of him."

"Does he have money?"

"Yes," England says, "but Spenser—here, look." He points to Spenser's signature, halfway up the page. "It's shorter than the rest. I can't imagine why he left so much space. And he doesn't describe the burning of his estate at all, he speaks only of a 'test of fire'—oh. Oh _there_ we are, oldest trick in the book, how the hell did I miss—"

"England?" America asks, but England's already holding the paper to the flame. "England! Don't burn it!"

"I'm not burning it—America, there's another message at the bottom. Invisible ink."

And sure enough, more spidery words unfold as the paper glows red.

"_I dare not entrust all I must say to a letter,_" England reads, "_for I fear what other eyes may see this missive, but know this: the Book hath made its displeasure with me known, and must soon be passed. Know also that I am watched, and that my watcher even now numbers my days; he hath given me a week more to do what I must not, dare not—oh! If only I could this tale unfold, but I am bound to secrecy. Bound by chains of my own make, and thou hast not the power to dissolve them._

I pray this letter finds thee safely, and swiftly. Look to the Queen—and look to Ireland."

_Well, shit_ seems to be about the most appropriate thing to say at the moment, but America doesn't. "What does it mean?" he asks, instead.

England's mouth is set in a hard thin line. "I don't know," he says, "but I suspect we'll find out more at Richmond."

* * *

.

* * *

A/N: See chapter 1 for dialect notes.

Will Kemp really did walk out on the Lord Chamberlain's Men in early 1599, probably due to creative differences with Shakespeare. From here on out, I'll be compressing the timeline of events a lot - the LCM performed before the queen on February 20th, not in late January, but I figure the fact that I've introduced zombies into Elizabethan England makes it okay for me to warp the timeline a little.


	5. Making New When Old Are Gone

The week passes, if not uneventfully, then at least without incursion from the undead. The Lord Chamberlain's Men put America through his paces, and England catches him muttering Bottom's lines under his bed at breakfast, humming snatches of that song on the stairs, going over the chancier blocking when they venture onto the streets.

"So if that cart's the stage left boundary, and the man with the cane is stage right—crap, no, he just moved, he can't be stage right."

"Might I suggest you rehearse somewhere with fixed dimensions? Somewhere with a fireplace, perhaps?" England asks through chattering teeth as Fulke Greville's servant informs them that her master is dining with Sir Christopher Blount (and of course she knows nothing of her master's correspondence, what sort of girl does England take her for?).

"Just keeping myself busy. How about you?"

"I'm trying to," England says, "but it feels an awful lot like busywork. None of Spenser's other contacts seem to have any idea what befell him after he left Ireland, and they all claim they never received any letters. Even if they're lying, they might not be lying for any reason helpful to us. Dee's still the best lead we have, and Cecil says he won't return to Richmond until the Lord Chamberlain's Men's performance."

"Right," America says, "so we're killing time until then. Well, you are." He glances down at his shoes and walks forward at the strangest angle.

"America, are you trying to tap-dance?"

"Oh! Uh. No. No, it's this—I'm trying to do the shoe-flappy-thing."

"The shoe-flappy-thing," England says, perfectly straightfaced.

"Uh-huh. The shoe-flappy-thing. It's supposed to sound really good onstage."

"America, you're performing in a hall. The floor isn't hollow. It won't resound the same way."

"—hey, maybe it'll sound good there, too. Resound. Whatever."

_Well, if it keeps him warm,_ England supposes.

He's somewhat less sanguine about America barging into the room they share at the Bird-in-Hand and bellowing, "Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead, now am I fled!" While England is trying to scry, no less. The bowl nearly upends itself.

"America," England says for what must be the tenth time this evening, "I'm trying to concentrate."

"Sorry," America says, holds up his hands. "I'll let you get back to—uh. Staring into your bowl."

"It's called scrying."

"Say what?"

"It's a kind of magic." America opens his mouth, some quip no doubt at the ready, but England barrels on. "You asked what it was, I'm explaining, and as _you've_ yet to form a reasonable hypothesis—"

"Aliens," America says, his expression so perfectly straight that England can't tell whether or not he's joking. "An advanced alien simulation. Kind of like the Matrix, but without the part about machines using us as giant batteries. Maybe it's a test."

England doesn't dispute the last. "A more _scientific_ version of 'this is all a dream'. I see."

"More like a waking fully-sensory hallucination."

"Quite different."

"Exactly," America says, then frowns. "Hey."

England glances into the bowl again, now that the water's stilled. The light ripples over the surface; he strains to see a recognisable silhouette in any of the dancing patterns, but none appears.

"Anyway. Scrying."

"It's a type of divination," he explains. "You bespell some clear substance—glass, crystal, I prefer water—and wait for images to take shape in it."

"So like crystal balls?" America raises his eyebrow and perches on the bed, his legs swinging. "Telling the future."

England laughs sourly. "Seeing the future is next to impossible. As none of it's happened yet, you see all that _could_ happen. All. Though some images pop up more frequently than others—the more probable futures, generally. Still there are enough of those that I don't recommend it." The corner of his mouth twitches, as do the ribbons of light streaking the water. "It requires a good deal of patience, for one."

"Right, that," America says almost airily, and flops backwards onto the bed. "So Miss Cleo's not gonna have any competition for a while, huh?"

England refrains from telling America precisely _what_ he thinks of the incoherent muddle of misunderstood philosophy and sanitized ritual characteristic of America's so-called psychics. Instead, he snorts. "As she hasn't yet been born, no. And no, I haven't scried anything of use. I've barely glimpsed anything at all."

America forgets to be properly skeptical and asks, "Nothing? Really?"

"Nothing." England pushes the bowl aside, massages his temples for all the good it does. "I suppose it hangs on Richmond, now."

* * *

His queen didn't always favour Richmond. Mary imprisoned her there in the early years of her reign, but once Bess was on the throne she reconciled with the palace and even warmed to it as the years wore on. England is glad she did; her warm winter box is a sight to behold now, and as he glimpses the onion-capped towers rise behind the gatehouse, his heart leaps into his throat. Yes, this, _this_ is as he remembers it: the strange almost-harmony of the gold-and-azure weathervanes, the grand sprawl of the outer courtyard, the fair gardens of the inner where he and Bess rested after a stag hunt, or stole a moment away from her throngs of courtiers, or kissed behind the blossoming hedges. He drums his fingers on his thigh, and only the cold outside the carriage keeps him from yanking the reins from the driver and whipping the horses towards the Great Hall.

"Are we there yet?" America asks for the tenth or eleventh time. England shushes him.

He ought to wish the players luck—or ill, rather—before he leaves, but when the door to the carriage opens he tears out of it without a word. The doors to the great hall seem to open of their own accord, welcoming him in once more. Truly, this sight is as welcome as the last. His great kings survey the space, robed in gold, and though they're only images they have a steadier grip on their swords than most of the nobles milling about. He doesn't see Bess in their number, and he's certain he would were she about. She doesn't like him to miss her, for one.

"Whoa," America says from behind him, softer than what England's used to. "Wow."

"It's a lovely palace," England says, can't help but smirk. "And one of her smaller ones, at that. You ought to see Nonsuch."

"It's pretty. Am I going to have to perform with all those kings glaring at me, though?" America wanders over to Henry V and grins, eyes the image up and down. "Not the happiest guys around, huh? I see where you perfected the stiff upper lip."

"They're readying themselves for war, they aren't supposed to look happy. _You_, on the other hand, ought to be readying yourself to perform."

He shrugs, rolls his shoulders back, that insolent grin unwavering. "Hey, it's not like I find myself in an actual palace all the time, you know? Just taking in the sights."

"I wouldn't've thought you'd care for palaces." England's smirk softens; he scans the crowd briefly, but sees no sign of his queen. "No gods, no kings, as I recall."

"She's not _my_ queen, she's yours," America begins, but Will approaches him from behind and coughs, cutting him off.

"Thou'rt requested by the rest of thy troop, Master Jones," he says, "and hast thou seen Heminges's beard?"

"Uh, nay," America says, scratches his chin. "Did he check with the rest of the props?"

"It ought to be stored with the costumes." Will frowns. "Ah, well. 'Tis of little enough consequence; they will know him for who he is by what he does, not by the beard he wears."

"At least he gets a beard," America grumbles. "I wanted a beard."

Will laughs, his hand resting at the small of America's back as though to steer him. "Thou hast an ass's head—a more marvelous sight by far, truly."

"What, no joke?" America asks, grinning at England.

"Too easy. It isn't sporting."

"Yeah, yeah. Hey." America's grin wavers. "Keep an eye out for me, okay?"

"I doubt I'll miss you," England says, but adds, as is the tradition, "Break a leg."

"Aw, you _do_ care."

"I care about you maintaining the integrity of my stage."

"I thought it was a hall."

Will laughs. England shoots him a glare. Whose side is he on? "Well, he's as insufferable as any clown I've ever met."

"Then thou must not have known Kemp well," Will says, almost with a twinkle in his eye. "Come, Master Jones, we shall see thee outfitted."

* * *

  
England is seated before Bess arrives. "Her Majesty!" the man next to him says, and the audience rises at one, only to bow again as Bess takes her gilded chair at the center of the audience, several rows left and back from where England sits. Even twisting his neck around he can't see her properly, as the rather full ruff of the man behind him blocks his view. He should run to her now—no, Will's onstage to deliver the prologue, and England oughtn't detract from the performance, Will doesn't deserve that.

Well, he'll have time after the play to see Bess. He hasn't seen her for four centuries, surely a few hours is nothing. Surely he has some reserves of patience left. He's not _America_, for Christ's sake.

He can't recall much of the first scene at all. America's debut on the Elizabethan stage comes in the next scene, and the thought's somewhat distracting. Fuck, does he know what half of those words mean? Presumably he had the sense to ask Will, and presumably Will told him. After all, what better authority on Shakespeare than Shakespeare?

England also prays America said nothing of Freud. Or Harold Bloom.

The rude mechanicals enter, and he only half-hears Quince say, "Is all our company here?" He expects he's anticipating the next line at least as much as America is.

America taps Quince on the shoulder. "You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to the scrip."

England releases the breath he didn't know he was holding. He supposes he needn't doubt America's ability to play director, or to interfere with someone else's production. Hell, he barely lets any of the other rude mechanicals get out their lines before he cuts in, bursting with suggestions. But the play's written that way, England reminds himself, and the audience seems to respond well to the pace he's setting.

"Let me play the lion, too!" America calls, bounces up and down on the tips of his toes and waves his hand in the air like a schoolboy. "I will roar, that I will do any man's heart good to hear me; I will roar, that I will make the duke say 'Let him roar again, let him roar again."

It reminds England so much of America at world meetings, squirming in his seat and straining to catch Germany's attention so he can unveil his latest plan, that England can't help but laugh. The rest of the audience joins him in chuckling, but they do so fondly, as though they're delighting in something their own child did.

No. Not a child. America might be clean-shaven and beaming—fresh-faced, even—and he might look absurdly pleased with himself, but he doesn't carry himself like a child. His chest is open and proud, and there's an easy swagger in his step when he strides over to Quince and declares, "I will undertake it," but he doesn't swell on the line the way a child would—or the way Kemp would, for that matter. It's—

He coughs. It's insufferable, that's what it is. Insufferable, and he certainly shouldn't think on it any further, even if the audience cheers wildly at the close of the scene. England half-expects America to wink at the audience as he leaves, but he refrains. Well. Perhaps he's learnt some restraint after all.

"They do not keep their clown onstage 'twixt the scenes?" the man to England's left asks.

"Nay. Perhaps it is some German innovation," a lady suggests.

"I never knew the Germans to have clowns," someone behind him says. "This fellow, what do they call him?"

"A Master Jones," says the lady.

"Well," says the first gentleman, "perhaps this Master Jones has some delights yet unseen in store."

That's one way of putting it, England thinks.

Two scenes from now until America's next appearance, and England drums his fingers on his thigh as the lovers chase each other about the forest and Oberon and Titania quarrel. England rather likes the boy-apprentices they've brought in to replace Condell and Heminges; they aren't so insipid as some of the other boys who play the women's parts. Daft, still, the lot of them, wandering in circles 'round nonexistent trees and making sheep's eyes at each other. For all the talk about the flush and vigour of love, England rather suspects being in love catches people at their worst.

That, or the players are playing the _idea_ of being in love rather than the thing itself. He says as much to the gentleman on his left, which proves to be a mistake, as the fellow nods solemnly and replies with a few verses of some of the most godawful poetry England's had the displeasure of hearing. No surprise to hear the man wrote it himself.

One more speech until America appears again. England _does_ wish they'd clear the playing area faster—ah, there he is, and about to transform into an ass.

He also makes a truly awful Pyramus, but that's the point. "Thisby, the flowers of odious savours sweet," he booms, and tries to make the points of his shoes flap against the ground in that distinctive stage-walk. He stumbles, falls, and England jumps in his seat—fuck, at that angle he'll break his nose unless he's planned out this fall in advance but England honestly can't tell—

Thankfully, America recovers, and England sinks back into his chair. The rest of the audience seems to be settling back into their seats, which makes England wonder if it wasn't a pratfall after all. God knows the court's seen enough of those onstage, and wouldn't rouse to this one.

Then again, it's the stage. What's real, whatever that means, is secondary to what's believed.

Of course. Of course. England could slap himself for having missed it. That little upstart, he's introducing representational theatre a few centuries early, isn't he. _It's all your fault,_ England informs the fae, and wishes he could keep a straight face while doing so. _You brought him along. Next thing you know we'll have cinematic realism and you'll all long for the days when actors didn't mumble their lines._

America runs back onstage, ass's head in place. The other players shout and run circles around him, occasionally knocking into each other in the process. America blunders after them, shouting, "I see their knavery! This is to make an ass of me," and at the note of profound _indignation_ in his voice England has to laugh.

"But I will not stir from this place, do what I can," America says, pulls himself up from his deflated posture and squares his shoulders again. "I will walk up and down here, and I will sing, that they shall hear I am not afraid."

Or rap, as the case may be, if England recalls what Will told him. Oh, fuck. England covers his eyes, half-waits for America to begin beatboxing.

He doesn't.

America's voice is—well, England hasn't had occasion to hear it that often, come to think of it. He hums and whistles, and England's heard him teach snippets of off-colour ballads to his troops before, but he doesn't often _try_ to sing in England's presence. And he's trying now, in a strong clear baritone. "_The ousel cock so black of hue, with orange-tawny bill…_"

It isn't a beautiful voice, precisely, but he's playing Bottom, it oughtn't be one. Besides, the ass's head muffles enough of the sound. England shakes his head. It's America; England would expect him to go for the joke with his usual degree of subtlety, but he lets the image do most of the work.

_America_, of all Nations, is letting Will's words speak for themselves. Of all things. England covers his mouth, leans forward.

"_Whose note full many a man doth mark, and dares not answer nay—_"

The last note hangs almost sweetly in the air, and a lady behind England sighs.

* * *

  
The epilogue concludes, the audience applauds, and England can finally look for Bess again. Bess's courtiers have the same idea, though, and surround her at all sides. England attempts to dive into the crowd, but the bodies are too thickly packed for him to force his way through, and by the time they all clear, Bess is gone.

Will, however, remains, and the crowd advances on him and the other emerging players next. England beats the rush this time.

"Well, Master Shakespeare?" he asks, low enough that the throngs advancing on the players don't overhear. "Art satisfied with thy Bottom?"

"Ay," Will says; he doesn't beam as America does, but his smile's no less radiant for it. "I do think he made them believe."

"He does that," England says, even more quietly.

"I do what?"

—sweet buggering Christ, America has to stop giving him turns like this. "There is no end to what you do, Am—Master Jones."

"So I did good, huh?" he asks, fumbling with the seams of his pants as though he's looking for pockets there to shove his hands into.

"You did _well_," England can't help but correct. "Anachronistically well, I might admit, I don't know what the rest of the audience—"

"Ah, our German clown!"

"Who, me?" America says, but doesn't have time for much else before a knot of admirers descends on him, too, peppering him with questions about his hometown and his accent and—England didn't catch that last, but he's fairly sure it's inappropriate.

"I'll leave you to your admirers," he says, claps America on the arm. "I must to my queen."

"We'll be outside the gatehouse, there's a kind of inn there," America says, "and—whoa, hey, carefuleth with that, fair ladies—"

* * *

Shadows wreath the hall to Bess's chambers, shadows England cannot banish with his candle alone. Easy in this shifting light to imagine some of them whispering to him, passing on palace gossip and state secrets. In trying to make some sense of the whispers and give them substance, though, he chases them away.

He rubs his forehead. There are times, even in this age, when it really _is_ just the wind.

"—will not stand for it!"

That, however, most certainly wasn't.

"Do you presume, sir, to command me?"

And that was Bess. England jogs to her door as quietly as he can, taking care not to spill the candle, and presses his ear to it.

"I do not command—" The other voice is male and young. Most human voices sound young to England these days, granted, but this voice in particular smacks of it no matter how deep the man's voice gets.

"Yet you persist in defying me. Are you more fit to command than I, then?"

"What, would you lead our troops to tame the wilds of Eire? Nay, you shall stay here—stay, and surround yourself with capering fools and a goatish dissembling pygmy while you cast those who would see England prosper from your graces!"

Essex, England realises. Of course she's arguing with Essex. She always argues with Essex. This one's heating quicker than most of the ones he recalls, though, and he wonders if Essex is about to find himself banished again.

"England would prosper more readily," Bess says dryly, "if you would repay the ten thousand pounds you owe him."

A pause, then: "That, I owe to you, and not to my Nation."

"Do you suggest I am not wedded to my country's interest?"

_Wedded to more than that_, England thinks, but dares not speak. He daren't do much in the way of breathing, either, come to think of it.

After an even lengthier silence, the man says, "I suggest it is in your interest, and your Nation's, to recall what is owed _me_ if this venture is to succeed: an army that can rout the Irish rabble and force their lords to heel."

"And have I not sent out the muster?"

A snort. "Ay, for men too poor to bribe the officers, or to pay another in their stead. If we but had a _true_ army—"

"One I should entrust to you, aye, to do as you will?"

"If you shall not provide one, Majesty," Essex nearly snarls, "I shall find one—ay, and one more suited to the occasion than the ragged band of greybeards your muster yields."

The door slams open, and Essex storms out. England pulls his cloak over his head before Essex can glimpse his face; Essex seems not to note him at all, and nearly knocks England into the wall in his haste to leave, his boots rapping smartly against the floor.

England's candle gutters and dies. He sets it down and steps inside.

It's profoundly disingenuous to say Bess looks as he remembers her. He remembers her in so many ways, after all. As a girl, her hair unbound and tangled; as a young woman, her face painted porcelain-white; after the smallpox struck, when she hid the marks under more layers of makeup. But she was Bess through it all and she's Bess now, and the sight of her before him is more perfect than any portrait could be.

Even if her hands cover her face, her fingers trembling on her temples.

England says nothing.

She lowers them, finally, and smiles at him. "My Nation," she says, and her voice, at least, holds steady.

His doesn't. "My wife." He kneels before her, takes her hand in his—god, it _has_ been centuries since he touched her last, and he fights not to seize her by the wrist and kiss every inch of her hand, settles instead for touching his lips to her knuckles.

"Thou'rt gallant as ever," she says, but doesn't withdraw her hand, and England is grateful for it.

"I do not often hear myself called such," he murmurs into her fingers.

"Few others see thee as I do."

"Ay, and I could say the same." He presses the back of her hand to his cheek; her skin's worn so thin now, like faded parchment.

"Thou couldst," she agrees, spares a glance at the door. "Thou seest me in a light most becoming; my courtiers would cast me in twilight, which flatters me not. Tell me, husband, whose sight am I to trust, when I receive such different reports?"

"Thy nation's, good wife, for when thy statesmen behold thee in twilight, they miss much which the day makes clear."

"And yet it is night now," she says, her smile stretched, "and thou seest me true, or such is thy claim. Dost recall the lines from our entertainment earlier? _Love sees not with the eyes—_"

"—_but with the mind,_" he finishes. "I am no Cupid, wife."

Her lips twitch, though England isn't privy to the joke. "Thou knowst the play well."

"The argument is old."

"And we who are old know it." She cups his cheek before he can protest, her thumb soft over his lips. England closes his eyes, perhaps to test that earlier hypothesis. He can fashion an image of her well enough in his mind, the red of her hair and the white of everything else, cuffs and ruff and skin, but surely his eyes do him better service than his imagination now that she's before him again, before him and _real_ and—well, thinner than he'd like. "Ay," she says, and when England opens his eyes her smile cracks, "I will say _old_ here."

_And hang any man for slander who says as much_, he thinks, but she knows it as well as he, and there's a difference between honesty and cruelty. "Do the bard's words still trouble thee?"

"That? Ay, I suppose. It was deftly done. Ah, the things that man fashions from words: rebuilds old Athens for our pleasure, conjures spirits to inhabit it, puts himself in the mouths of God and kings alike." England again tilts his head towards her face as though to bathe in what it reflects, and she snorts. "Men have been hanged for less."

The pit of England's stomach stirs. "Sorcery, lady, or treason?"

"Why, they are the same. Thy playmakers proved it, or 'twas proved against them."

Despite the restless motion, his stomach chills with sickening speed. "My queen, we have spoke oft of this—"

"Ay, and perhaps they have ensorcelled you," she says. Age has not weathered her edge; England ought to have remembered that. "Thou'rt fond of the man William Shakespeare, art thou not?"

Good god, what _did_ Essex say to her? "Ay, my wife," he says, wary, but there's little use in denying as much.

"Does he speak for thee now?"

"No!" bursts out before he can think otherwise, but now he must amend it: "Not quite—in part. It's damnably complex."

Bess's lips are nearly as white as the rest of her face.

"My wife," he says, "why do we argue?"

"I know not," she says. "Only that I saw thee enter my chambers, and as thou knelt before me I trembled, because I knew thee not."

"Oh," England says. His throat tightens too much for anything else.

"I am jealous, husband, I admit, when I think of another knowing thee so well, and I—" She sighs, releases his face, lets her hands fall to her lap. Bess would never slump on a bed; queenly carriage is, if not in her blood, in her bones by now, but her shoulders slip down all the same. "And I at such a remove from thee, that I no longer know thy heart."

"My heart is thine," England says, moves to sit on the bed beside her and clutches her hand, presses it to his chest. "As much thine as ever it has been."

"Then thou'rt the country I wed?"

He hesitates. "I have striven to be so."

"Striven," she echoes, her fingers tracing the slit in his shirt. They brush his collarbone, tug the cloth back, and she thumbs the thick white scar there. "Yet this is unfamiliar to me."

"Shrapnel," he says, tries not to flinch, and at her questioning look: "It's a type of explosive—it was a long time ago." Or well into the future, rather, as the trenches of the Somme are still some three centuries distant. God, there's a thought.

Bess says nothing, but her fingers tighten.

"My aspect is changed," he says slowly, works it out for himself as much as for her. He's half-tempted to call for Will; Will would know the words for this better than he, if there are words for this at all. "And I have seen—I have gained much, my wife, and lost more. But always, _always_ I have tried to be—" Fuck, he's getting this all muddled, and the burn spreading from his throat to his chest isn't helping matters. "I have tried to be—"

Still, she says nothing.

"I have tried to be a Nation you would be proud of," he says at last. "And that is why I say my heart is thine."

At last, she nods. "How many years gone?" she asks, and England doesn't need her to clarify.

"Four hundred, almost to the day," he says.

"Then that I still know thee for what thou art means thou hast not changed overmuch."

It isn't quite a smile. "Thou hast no idea what that means to me. The years have not been as kind to me as to thee."

Hers, however, is. "Flattery, still?"

"Have I changed so much that now I practise it with ease?"

In answer, she trails her fingers up the side of his neck, strokes his jaw, rests her hand at the back of his head. "Nay," she says. "Thou canst not look upon me and lie."

"My wife, I never could."

"But others can, and do as easily as they draw breath." She sighs. "All the men I trusted are dead, husband."

"I am not."

"Thou'rt no man."

"True enough," he says, inclining his head."Regarding thy trust—"

"Thou wilt have heard my dispute with Essex." Her mouth thins. "Nay, do not tell me how it ends, or where; I will not have my future told to me like a credulous girl giving coin to a gypsy."

"Thou wert never a credulous girl," England says. "And I fear I could not, even were I to wish it so. These are strange times we are in."

"Ay, most strange." Bess pauses a moment, strokes the coverlet almost absently. "Too strange for we who have lived so long, and seen so many strangenesses become familiar."

"And wondered when we became so well-acquainted with them." England smiles.

For a woman of sixty-five, Bess can still manage astonishing coyness when she so chooses: an arch of her brow, a twist of her mouth. "Thou wert strange to me once."

"Ay, so I was," he admits.

"And thou became familiar."

He'd laugh, but the tightness in his chest prevents it. "So I did."

She brushes her lips to his forehead, dry and soft and feather-light, and it isn't right that such a little touch should—well. Should make everything inside him shatter all at once. It's a miracle he doesn't collapse boneless to the bed, but Bess's hand is still on the back of his head, steadying him.

"I thank thee," she says, "for keeping an old woman company, and release thee to thy revels."

"My wife, I would not leave you."

"Thou wouldst not," she agrees. "But I have left thee already."

* * *

.

* * *

A/N: See Chapter Two for dialect notes.

As I mentioned in the notes to last chapter, the LCM actually performed Midsummer at Richmond on February 20th, not in January, but this entire fic is under the effects of TIME KOMPRESSION anyway.

Also, oh god Ireland. Wiki has more about the Nine Years' War, but basically: Hugh Ó Neill has falling-out with Elizabeth, spearheads Irish rebellion against English rule, the depths of which England completely fails to comprehend, Ó Neill and allies ambush English troops on the way to Armagh and score a big ol' victory, which fucks over Elizabeth and gets the rebellion even more Irish support. The Earl of Essex is sent over in 1599 to un-fuck things up. This does not go so well historically. In this version - well, you'll see.

England got the scar in the Battle of the Somme, during World War I. Nasty affair, that.


	6. When the Brains Were Out

"We did it!" America whoops, sweeping Will into the biggest hug he can. "Holy crap, Will, did you see, they loved it, they loved us—"

"Ay, and thou hast won for thyself no small share of admirers," Will says, inclines his head towards the gaggle of ladies still winking America's way. "Prithee, an I may—"

"What's up?"

"If thy grip could be loosened—"

"Oh. Sorry." He releases Will, who looks a little redder in the face than the booze alone accounts for, and thumps him on the back. Will sputters but smiles, and signals the barkeep for another round.

It's a pretty good party, all told. The place smells like fresh sawdust, which is better than sweat or stale beer except for the part where America keeps sneezing, and a steady stream of people flows through the door to buy the Lord Chamberlain's Men a round or shake Burbage's or Will's hand or greet someone else with a hearty backslap. Or—hey, are those guys giving America's ass the once-over? He grins, toasts them with his tankard. Guess the hose doesn't make his ass look fat after all.

He wonders where England is.

Will shakes his head when America asks. "I know not; I have seen nothing of him since last we parted," he tries to say over the chorus of whatever drinking song they're striking up now. "Truly, I would think thee better-informed than I in this matter."

"Nah." America drains the last of this tankard. Good stuff, this. There's almost a honeyed aftertaste to it. "I mean, we have a special relationship and stuff, but."

"A special relationship?"

"Yeah." Explaining that without explaining the next four hundred years is a chore, so America settles for the condensed version. "I tell him stuff, and he tells me stuff, but there's—there's limits. Stuff we hold back."

"Because you both must."

"Well yeah," he concedes. "Like where he is right now."

_I'll to my queen_, England said. Must've been hours ago. Someone presses a fresh mug into his hand, and America makes a face into the ale. Isn't she like sixty? Okay, that's not exactly fair, America guesses he'd have a lot of catching up to do if he hadn't seen one of his people for four hundred years. Still, England did say he'd be here, and the party's not showing any sign of stopping soon but there's still a limit to how long you can go without electricity. Or central heating. He can't call it gloomy or cold, though, not with the fireplace roaring and the lanterns winking and the smoke thickening the air.

And some more girls are approaching, all smiles. All gap-toothed and browning smiles, if he's being honest, but heck, they're English so how much can you _expect_. Plus, they still have more teeth than Washington did.

Not that America ever made out with Washington. Maybe he needs more beer. This will make sense with more beer, or it'll make the good kind of no sense, anyway. Will mouths something, but the girl closes to America's elbow asks, "And be all the men so tall in thy village?" over top of him.

"Actually, I'm about middling," America says. "Uh. Heightwise, anyway."

"If thou'rt a middling sort of man, thy land must be populated by giants," the girl says; her friends close in and trap America on all sides, and _someone_'s hand is somewhere America didn't think Englishwomen's hands usually went.

"Only the basketball players," he says, scans the crowd for Will. Can't the man pick up a bro distress call?

"And how dost play at basketball?"

"Well—"

"It requires a different sort of court," England says crisply.

"En—Kirkland!" He's sort of aware of the girls slipping off to join the talk at the tables, but mostly he sees England smiling thinly, his traveling cloak sliding over his shoulders. "Took you long enough."

"I told you I had business elsewhere," he says, "and the celebration hardly seems to have stopped."

America shrugs. "I think more people are trickling out than in now, but there's still plenty of booze. And we booked rooms upstairs, so _we_ don't have to worry about getting home."

"A good thing, too," England mutters.

"Huh?"

He shakes his head. "_We_, you said."

"Well yeah." America scratches behind his ear. Should've set down his tankard before he did that, whoops. Oh well, nothing a shower won't fix, except showering here is kind of difficult. "I'm not a shareholder or anything, but—it's nice, you know? They liked it."

"They weren't the only ones," England says. America squints, tries to make out his face but it's hard to see in this part of the tavern so America half-drags half-ushers England to a smaller table under the overhang, opposite one of the stoves. Neither of them sits down, exactly; America leans back against the table, and England braces the heel of his hand on it.

"So you meant it?" he asks. "I did good?"

"_Well_, I told you earlier. And judging from your admirers—"

America shakes his head, which makes the tavern spin for a few seconds. "I know what they think."

"Yes. Well."

"And it's awesome, it's great, just—just being onstage and watching them get into it, seeing how they smile and laugh, it's—" It's hard to put into words. It's this warmth, like the sun's settled in his chest, but he's probably not drunk enough to say that. "I like giving them that."

"I know."

The smoke stains the air between them.

"But what about you?" he asks, elbows England in the side. "Did I give you that?"

"Ah—" England clutches the edge of the table, winces. "Mind your strength when you do that, you oaf."

America laughs, leans forward and rumples England's hair. "Sorry."

"Oh no you're not, you're absolutely _insufferable_—"

"Can't stand anything about me, huh?" Mussing England's hair is nice, but stroking his scalp underneath is nicer, and England makes a funny noise in the back of his throat when America tugs his hair. "Huh, thought you said you liked the performance."

England doesn't shove him off, but he does bat at America's hand. Somehow their fingers tangle together instead, and America kind of laughs and slides his hand down England's neck, rests it on his shoulder. He has such sharp shoulders, like you could cut your palms on them.

"That wasn't you, that was your—no, no I suppose it was you," England says quietly. "You, up there, in front of them all."

"You were watching."

"Yes."

"You saw."

"Yes."

America's fingers close around the clasp of England's cloak, and the stove's heat blasts them both. His hand settles on England's hip, and England's fingers are splayed under his shoulderblade—there's no way England can hold him up like that, but he doesn't think England's trying to. The aftertaste of beer hangs thick and sour in the back of his mouth, or maybe he's just more aware of it now, maybe everything's coming into sharper focus. He can hear each hitch of England's breath, each beat of his own heart.

Their lips are inches apart. Less than that, probably, but America's not exactly counting, he's more focused on the heat of England against him, the ghost of his breath on America's chin.

Someone bumps the table from behind, and America pitches forward, England toppling back. "Whoa," America says, "watch it," and turns that hand on England's hip into a pat on the back instead. "Ha. Guess you were right, it's still pretty crowded in here."

"You, admitting I'm right about something?" England lifts an eyebrow. "Will wonders never cease."

The conversation around America's roaring at full volume again, and it makes his head feel even thicker. "Don't get too cocky. I'll get us drinks or something?"

"I'm not sure how much more you ought to have."

"Oh come on, I can handle myself," America says, and heads to the kitchen before England can retort.

Okay. Once he's past the longest table (everyone toasts him as he swings around, it's nice), he rubs the sides of his nose. That was—it might be better not to start down that path. (_Forever will it dominate your destiny_, the back of America's brain helpfully adds.) He'll get the drinks, crack a few jokes at England's expense, it'll be like nothing happened. And nothing _did_ happen.

But it could have.

It wouldn't have been bad if it had.

America grits his teeth. He wishes he didn't have to think about it. He doesn't have to think about it. He can think of other things, like how awesome it was tonight, how great it was to see the actors having fun and the audience having fun and England having fun, and England never has any fun, England needs to have more fun, England was probably having a lot of fun with Elizabeth tonight and maybe that's why—

This isn't working. Also, there are zombies.

"Jesu!" someone shouts next to his ear, and America ducks before the zombie's swing connects. It throws a faster punch than zombies are strictly supposed to, and America barely sidesteps the follow-up. The zombie overbalances on that swing, though, so America grabs the zombie's arm and hurls it headfirst into the nearest wall. The stone shudders, and the zombie's head splits with a sickening crack. God, America hopes that counts as a headshot.

The initial surge of adrenaline's fading, and the fight signals ease up for America to register that _someone let zombies into the basement._

"I would trade my right hand for a chainsaw," America says, because shouting _jesus Christ there are zombies in this basement why are there zombies in this basement oh man how many centuries is it before they invent shotguns_ isn't helpful.

"God-a-mercy, what manner of creature—" Burbage begins, somewhere behind America. America looks around wildly, builds a frantic picture of what's going on. The Lord Chamberlain's Men and he and England are the only ones left in the basement, aside from the zombies trickling through the kitchen door and shuffling down the stairs, blocking the exits.

"Zombies," America says, doesn't bother to explain what or why or even how he knows. They don't shout "brains," don't amble around like the ones in Romero films, but America catches an almost fungal whiff from the ones getting close, and their skin's grey and mottled like it's grown mold.

Luckily, Burbage doesn't ask. "Arm, gentlemen!" he shouts, and the ring of metal's louder than the screams and scraping hinges and creaking stairs, if just for a minute. Guess all that combat training pays off.

"Block the entrances," America says. "Make them engage with you one-on-one, don't let them form groups."

Groups—there's four in the room already, two advancing on Will. Crap. America breaks into a run, vaults over the table and slams his shoulder into the middle of a zombie's back and sends it sprawling to the dirt.

"My thanks." Will pushes his remaining attacker back with a solid foot to the chest and draws his sword. America's zombie heaves under him, tries to throw him off, but he brings his knee down hard, pulls out his dagger and reverses his grip, clubs the zombie in the temple with its hilt. Seems like hitting them in the head does _something_, so America seizes the back of its head, bares its face, winces and plunges his dagger into its eye. The zombie flails, then sags, slackening.

Oh christ, he does _not_ want to clean his dagger after this.

Will recoils. Luckily, that means the zombie lunging for his throat misses. "The head's the weak point," America says, picking himself back up. "You have to shoot them in the—"

America doesn't see what whacks the zombie in the back of the head, but then again, neither does the zombie.

"—head. You have to shoot them in the head."

It topples forward, crashes into the dirt, and England steps out from behind. "We don't have guns. Idiot," he adds, for that extra England touch of authenticity.

"Okay, fine. Stab them in the head?"

"An it please you, I suggest we cover our own," Will says, and the three of them dive under the table just in time to miss a zombie's gnashing teeth. It ducks to follow them under, but America lifts one of the benches and lets it smash down on the back of the zombie's neck, which takes care of that. Phillips and Heminges are barring the door all right, but the stairs are becoming a clusterfuck: zombies are jumping off them and onto the floor below, grouping up afterwards.

"We need a plan of attack," England says.

"_Stab them in the head._"

"A feat more easily spoke than done, I fear," Will says.

"That's why you aim for the squishy parts."

Will recoils again.

"Something wrong?"

"We're out of time," England says, "the guard at the door's giving way—"

Phillips and Heminges stagger back from the kitchen door, the red stains on their shirts spreading.

"Wait, the zombies have _swords_ now?"

"Knives, most like," says Will.

"That's bogus!"

"Indeed," England says grimly.

"Okay." America steadies himself with a deep breath. "On three we break. I'm going to help Heminges and Phillips hold the door."

"We'll clear the stairs—"

A cry goes up, and one of the apprentices crashes into a smaller bench—a zombie's arms hang useless at its sides, open but bloodless gashes carved deep into the muscle, but its teeth are clamped around the apprentice's arm, twisting. Will's eyes widen.

"Please please _please_ don't let these be the infectious kind of zombies," America prays aloud.

"We'll find out soon enough, won't we. America—"

"I got it."

"Right, then. Will, to me. One—"

"—two—"

America and England each seize an end of the table, even if it's mostly America who flings it aside. "Stand back!" he hollers to Phillips and Heminges, picks the table back up and carries it in front of him like a shield, charges towards the open door. The stone shakes, but at least the wall holds when America crashes into it, and he thinks he hears a few zombies break their noses against the table. (Judging from the shout of "Zounds!" next to him, the zombies aren't the only ones to collide with the table. Whoops.) The wood groans from the strain—"Get the benches!" America shouts, and he, Phillips, and Heminges brace the table with them.

"It shall not hold long," Phillips says, clutches a gash on his forearm. He's looking a little green under the skin, too. Not good.

"Long enough. Okay, you two, this is going to sound gross, but you see the pokers by that stove?"

They nod.

"Get 'em hot, run back here, stand on either side of the door. When it breaks—" America makes a stabbing gesture.

"Thou hast a fiendish imagination," Heminges says, kind of admiringly.

"No worse than Kyd or Marlowe. Come." Phillips tugs Heminges's sleeve, and they dash to the stove.

Okay, that covers the door. What's going on with the stairs?

The stairs are clearing, but that's because the zombies are leaping off them and overrunning Burbage and the apprentices to rush Will and England. They both have their swords out, but the circle around them closes, tightens—

"Pope! Burbage! Everyone! Come on!" America yells, drops his sword in favor of a big broken plank and takes off at a run towards the cluster of undead, plows headfirst into three of them. It doesn't break their circle, but the zombies stagger into their buddies, and America follows up with a wide swing of his plank into more than a few unnaturally gray faces. He hacks and elbows and kicks and chops his way through; there can't be more than twelve of these guys but it _feels_ like more, the way they absorb each hit like they don't even feel it. Which they probably don't, America realizes. Even the ones without knives can deliver some stinging punches, though, and he reels back from a nasty uppercut, his plank wobbling in front of him.

He gets a glimpse of the circle's center—blood trickles from the corner of England's mouth, and Will's leaning heavily on his right leg, but no serious wounds yet, looks like. Good. America swings his plank from side to side, daring any zombies to come closer, and staggers into the center of the circle, panting and grinning. "Hi guys," he says.

"Clearly," England says, "I need to start preparing spells in advance."

Will spears a zombie through the throat, grunts as he tries to pull his blade out. "We tire, and they do not."

"So we've gotta end this fast," America says. "Follow me, we need to break the circle."

Burbage and Pope are hacking at the edges, trying to create an opening, but their swords are too thin to hold it for long. Looks like it's up to him. America squares his shoulders and charges forward, plank flailing, slams himself into zombie after zombie until his vision swims from the impact. Hands—warm hands, human (or Nation) ones—grab him by the shoulders and yank him forward, and he stumbles out of the broken circle, his glasses hopelessly askew.

"America, can you hear me?" England's voice, even if there are about two Englands talking to him.

"Yeah. I gotcha."

His vision resolves in time to see one of the zombies lunge at Will—America's about to shout out a warning, but Will steps aside at the last possible second. The zombie can't halt fast enough, runs straight into the stove, and Will picks up a nearby tankard and clubs him on the back of the head with it, sending him facefirst into the hot iron.

"That," America says, "was badass."

Fire at the corner of his eye—Burbage picked up a torch and is brandishing it at the zombies, and the zombies are shrinking back from it. Not fast enough, though, because Burbage jams the torch forward and sets at least one head alight. That zombie shrieks and falls back into one of its friends, and the fire spreads out from there.

"Please tell me we have water nearby," England says.

"Nay, but we've beer enough," says an apprentice, pushing a big keg forward. "'Twill do for stopping the blaze."

America glances back. Phillips is _really_ pale, but at least he's slumped against the wall and grinning, his poker dangling from his hand. Between him and Heminges are at least four zombies.

"They gave up th'attack when they saw what we had in store for 'em," Heminges calls, his voice hoarse. "Retreated into the night, most like."

Burbage watches the zombies burn, his mouth hard. "Are we all 'counted for?"

"Ay," Will says, "though some of us have worse hurts than others."

"Go get them patched," Burbage tells the apprentices not on beer duty, who scamper off. "By Jesu, what a sight."

"And thus we end our revels for the night," Will finishes.

"Oh, we're not done yet," England says, wipes the blood from his chin with the back of his wrist. "Our calling on Dee is _long_ overdue, wouldn't you say?"

* * *

"Dee!" England hammers on the door. "Dee, I know thee to be about, as the clouds have not yet eclipsed the stars—tear thyself from thy telescope and attend thy fucking door!"

Next to America, Will coughs. "And should they bite thee—"

"Then thou'rt seriously boned," America finishes. "Unless they're not the infectious kind of zombies. See, there are the zombies who turn you into one of them when they bite you, and they're usually a little faster, which is why I thought our zombies might be those kind, but there are also—"

"They aren't zombies, they're wights," England snaps, still knocking.

"Uh, England? Those were zombies."

"They are singularly dead and singularly reanimated. They're wights."

"They wanted to _eat our brains_. They're zombies."

"You don't know—"

The door swings open, and England stumbles forward. On instinct, America grabs his collar to keep him from falling and lets go when he feels the back of England's neck heat.

The guy on the other side of the door definitely looks like a wizard, from the bushy eyebrows to the long gray beard to the dusty black robes. His cap's round instead of pointy, though, which is kind of a letdown. "My Nation," he says, eyes widening. "What brings thee at this dread hour?"

"Black business," England says, "and things not to be spoke of so openly." He steps through the door before Dee has the chance to invite them all in, and America and Will follow.

It's not as dark in here as America expected; candleholders protrude from the walls, and candelabras cover most of the space not already occupied by books. Seems like kind of a dangerous combination to America, but hey, it's not his room. The books, though—Will makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and reaches out to trail his fingers over one of the stacks, murmuring in astonishment. "_The Discourse on the Eighth and Ninth_. I have heard tell of it," he says, "but I thought it lost to the desert sands."

"Nay," Dee says, "'twas recovered by the Turks, and they gifted it me years ago." He smiles, the corners of his mouth shaking. "Thou hast some interest in history?"

"Ay, as any playmaker must."

"If I may draw thy attention to something more recent," England says, brandishes the letter and taps Dee on the chest with it. "This letter's for thee. Would it had arrived sooner."

Dee snatches it up with a spindly-fingered hand and reads, his eyebrows knotting. "Would that it had," he murmurs. The paper trembles in his fingers. "Alas, I do fear—"

"_You_ fear?" America says. "Hey, you didn't get attacked by zombies. At least, I don't think so."

From Dee's blank look, he doesn't. Lucky him. England, America, and Will take turns explaining as much as they can: getting sent back in time, Spenser's maybe-imprisonment and definite death, the zombies, Essex's fight with the queen.

"So," America finishes. "What's going on?"

"I fear the answer lies beyond these books," Dee says, runs his thumb down the spine of one. He sinks onto the stool by his bed, his robes sagging, his shoulders slouched under their weight. "But what I know, I'll speak."

England nods. "What was the book Spenser mentioned? I suspect that's at the heart of—well, all this."

"Ay, most like." Dee lifts a massive book from the stack near his feet, and America's afraid his arms are going to snap in half. "He speaks of the Ealdspell."

"The what?" England and America say at the same time; Will blinks, looks politely puzzled. He does that a lot.

"The Ealdspell," Dee says, paging through the book in his lap, "is a grimoire of great power."

"Wait, grimoire?" America asks. "Like the magic book kind of grimoire?"

"You know what the word means," England says. It's not quite a question, and for a second there's almost a hint of a smile in his voice. "And for Christ's sake, America, we were just beset by wights, if that isn't proof positive enough that magic exists I don't know what will be."

"Not wights. Zombies," he tries to interject, but even Will's giving him a skeptical look. "Zombies can be science."

"Magic is a science," Dee says. "Is it not a means by which we may understand the natural world, and shape it to our ends?"

"Well, yeah, but—"

"The Ealdspell, Dee," England interrupts. "_I_'ve heard nothing of it, and I feel as though I ought have."

"Nay, its nature is such that it would not make itself known to thee." Dee coughs, his chest shuddering. "The Ealdspell is the vessel of the Ealdsprǽc, the Old-Speech, the All-Language; what Kelley dreamed of Enoch's tongue is but approximation—rough rude shapes, as the shadows on the wall of Plato's cave."

"Awesome," America says, scratches behind his ear. "What does that mean?"

"More to the point, what does it do?" England asks.

"Why, it writes the world," Dee says, his eyes almost fever-bright. "Speak a thing, and it is so; unspeak it, and it never was; name a thing in the Ealdsprǽc and it is yours forever; even Nations such as thee must heed its words—"

"—can it make the dead rise? Like the Necronomicon?"

"I know not the book of which you speak," Dee says, "but ay, it could."

"You're never supposed to read from the Necronomicon," America says, shuddering. "That way lies madness."

"Ay, and madness dogs those who would claim Ealdspell and Ealdsprǽc for themselves, save those the book has chosen." Dee closes the book in his lap, and his fingers ghost over the cover, trace the shapes of characters that make America's eyes hurt to look at. "The Ealdspell carries a toll of flesh for those who seek to wield it without its assent: blood spilled for every word spoken." He shuts his eyes tight. "And when I beheld it years ago, I dared give it all I could, but to go further—"

So it _is_ the Necronomicon, America decides, and shivers. A thin wind trickles through the crack in Dee's window, stirs the hair on the back of America's neck. Maybe he got the genre all wrong. Maybe he's stuck in the middle of a horror flick. A book that lets you rewrite reality, lets you screw around with _Nations_—it's not the most comfortable thing to think about, you know? Someone out there has a weapon that powerful, and they don't know who.

"I see," England breathes. The color's drained from his lips; even the candlelight around him looks weak and pale. "How didst thou come to know of this? I have walked this earth thousands of years, and for such a thing to be—" He trails off, and America reaches over and pats his knee. Not too awkwardly, he hopes.

"Christopher Marlowe showed it me," Dee says, "and Spenser after him."

"The book's masters, I presume," England says, shaking his head to snap himself out of it a little. "It seems rather fond of poets—ah. A-_ha_."

One by one, everyone turns to look at Will.

"The book must soon be passed, he said," Dee muses. "And Spenser summoned thee the night of his death."

"And whoever he was working for killed him before he could give the book to the guy it was supposed to go to." America punches Will's arm lightly with his free hand. "You."

"I am but a playmaker," Will starts to say, but England scoffs.

"'But' a playmaker, my sodding arse. And Kit was 'but' a playmaker, I'll remind you."

"He was—" Will stops, looks down; America stoops, too, and sees Will's lips drawn tight and shaking. "He was more than that."

"Regardless," Dee says, "the Ealdspell is thine by rights, if not by deed."

"I am not certain—"

"I am." Dee rises slowly, joints creaking. "Who has it now, I wonder."

"And who _wields_ it, if Spenser's dead," England adds.

"And what Spenser and his boss wanted all those dead people for," America says. "'Cause I don't think some well-meaning citizen's giving Londoners a second chance at living out of the goodness of his heart, you know?"  


* * *

  
Sherlock Holmes isn't America's, but he has to say, a deerstalker hat and big old pipe would feel just about right now. He wishes the zombies had left behind dirt whose chemical composition was unique to one place in England, but no such luck. They're back in the bar, sorting through the rubble and splinters; outside the sun's probably almost up, but America's got too much to do to think about sleep.

"Essex was Spenser's patron, and he has long quarreled with Her Majesty," Will says. "And Spenser was in Ireland, and now Essex goes thence with an army at his back; to what ends he will turn it, we know not. He is most like to have the Ealdspell, from aught we _do_ know."

"It makes sense." England squats on a relatively clean part of the floor.

"Ay, as neat as any plot I could have written." Will frowns. "Too neat, perhaps."

"What, you think he's being set up?" America asks.

"I wonder why he would attack so soon after his quarrel with Her Majesty, and so near her. The suspicion of the deed would fall on him, most like."

"And shall," England says. "But if he knows you're the rightful owner of the book, Will—and he might well have suspected, had he read Spenser's letter, and if he realized the first trap failed—"

"But you said Cecil was the one who had all of Spenser's letters," America says. "Not Essex."

"He said his spies made copies, and sent the originals on. Essex might have the originals."

America's about to nod, then stops. "Wait. No. No, that doesn't work. If the letters Cecil gave you were copies, why'd he have the one with the hidden message to Dee? It was in invisible ink. Lemon juice or something, whatever. No way he or his secretary could've copied that part over."

"Cecil could have kept the originals and sent on the copies," England says, but he frowns, chews his fingernail.

"So _two_ people intercepted Spenser's mail?"

"Ay, one for each faction at court," Will says. "Cecil, and Essex."

America whistles. "That's an awful lot of snooping."

"Any man may turn to spy in these times, an he sees some reward in it," Will says quietly. "And knowledge reaps great reward, whether it be true or false, for falsehoods may turn to truth."

"So—" America squints, rubs his forehead. "Wait, by that logic Cecil could've been the one who sent the zombies after us, to make Essex look bad."

"Another Babington plot." England snorts. "You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, but more still than that will alight in the eyes of a corpse."

"I'faith," Will says, "thou dost sound like Kit."

"I'faith, I do feel like Kit." England sighs. "I wonder if he had the right of it."

* * *

.

* * *

A/N: As always, see Chapter Two for dialect notes.

John Dee was a pretty cool dude. (Wikipedia has more, but FFN, alas, does not let me embed links.)

The Ealdspell and Ealdsprǽc are, to my knowledge, entirely fictional. (Ealdspell means "old story" in Old English; Ealdsprǽc is "old tongue".)

You are more than welcome to play "spot the Evil Dead references." In fact, I encourage it.


	7. Tis Now the Very Witching Time of Night

"So basically either Cecil is really, really smart, or Essex is really, really dumb."

"Or both. Do keep your voice down," England chides as the bookseller peers over his ledger to stare at them both. England makes a show of studying the shelves.

"What, did someone follow us here?" America asks.

"Damned if I know, but I'm not taking any chances." He looks about. The shop's not large enough for anyone to lurk out-of-sight, but people flow in and out the door, pausing to leaf through the books on display or haggle with the shopkeeper.

America runs his thumb over the topmost row of books. "Paranoid much?"

"Cautious," England corrects, "and with good reason. I've arranged for us all to move rooms—"

"Move _rooms_?"

He smiles mirthlessly. "If whoever's behind this has a mind to attack us again, I won't make it easy for them."

"You, my friend, have suspicion down to an art form," America says. "Oh, hey. _W. Shakspere, The Passionate Pilgrim._ Will didn't say he had a book out."

"Yes, well, I doubt he authorized it." England decides not to explain Elizabethan copyright laws (or the lack thereof, rather); they've got enough to be getting on with.

"Gimme a shilling? I'm going to buy it."

He hands over the money; the tips of his fingers brush America's palm, and America's fingers close over his own for a moment before he snatches the coins away and rolls them around in his hand.

"And hey, if he didn't know he was getting published, it'll be a surprise present," America says.

England nods, his thoughts elsewhere. With effort, he reins them in. America was drunk, England disconsolate, and there were wights. It doesn't bear thinking on.

"We'll pay both Cecil and Essex visits," he says instead, "and see what we uncover."

* * *

"England!"

"America, keep your voice down, for the love of Christ." England wouldn't be surprised if Cecil built these servants' staircases to amplify whispers and channel them straight to his rooms.

"Then come closer," America says, "I can't see you—"

England scoffs and taps the shoulder in front of him.

"'Sblood!"

"Ah. My apologies, Will."

"They are accepted," Will says, "but I would thou couldst warn me of such things."

"I thought you were America—never mind." England sighs. They'd best be quick about this; Burbage and the Lord Chamberlain's Men may have lured some of Cecil's servants away, but the back rooms won't remain empty forever, and god knows who Cecil's set to stand watch over his estate.

"Wish we had a flashlight," America mutters.

"Give it a few centuries."

"Fine. A torch."

The corner of England's mouth twitches. "It's the same thing."

"Huh?"

He sidesteps the question. "Light would draw too much attention to us," he explains instead. "And I've been up and down these blasted stairs enough through the years, I ought to know the way—"

"Doesn't mean you _do_."

"When did you last walk them?" Will asks.

"Oh," England says, groping at the wall for the moulding over the door, "several centuries ago. Or several days ago, depending on how you reckon the time."

"Ay," Will says; England can hear the puzzled frown in his voice. He ignores it for now, starts counting. Cecil's chambers aren't at the top of the steps, they're two landings down and on the right, and even Cecil's locks yield to a whispered spell or two. England shakes his head. He could have sworn he mentioned the importance of a few well-placed wards over one's doors, but the man's enough of a Puritan to balk at it, potential breach of security or no. Were he Catholic he wouldn't slight on such matters, but never mind that now, it _does_ make the present task easier.

Cecil's rooms are deserted. Burbage should keep him plied with food and drink for another hour or so. Strange to enter through the door and not the window, but England has done stranger and will continue to do so, no doubt.

"So what does the Ealdspell look like, even?" America whispers, his breath in England's ear.

England nearly swats him out of reflex, but stays his hand in time. "When did _you_ learn to be quiet?"

"When you started spacing out. So. Big old book?"

"That narrows our search little, I fear," Will says, eying the wall of bookshelves opposite Cecil's desk.

"He won't have it out in the open. Or perhaps he will, but made to look like something else." England chews his thumbnail. "Even if the Ealdspell isn't here, there ought to be something—fuck, I ought've asked Dee more about the wretched thing—"

"If it's supposed to be Will's, maybe he can—I don't know, sense it? Like a metal detector. But for books."

England wonders if he has anything on hand to stick in America's mouth to keep him from putting his foot in it, and doesn't _that_ invite a certain sort of image, made more disturbing by England remembering how, as a child, America used to do just that.

"It may make itself known to me," Will says, as though he still doesn't quite believe the whole thing, "but I know not how."

"Well, metal detectors beep."

"They beep, didst say?"

England cuts in before America can explain. "Don't demonstrate." He drops to his knees to root under Cecil's desk. "And try to replace everything where you found it when you're done looking."

He looks up to see America mock-salute. "Aye aye, Captain."

Cecil's desk yields nothing. England skims his correspondences, but there's nothing in them, either, nor in the chest at the foot of his bed. America checks under it, but emerges shaking his head, and though Will is spending an inordinate amount of time perusing Cecil's bookshelves, England suspects that's professional interest more than an actual lead.

"So you really think he'd hide the book here?" America asks after shaking down Cecil's pillows.

"Put those back where you found them. And yes, or if not the book then _something_, damn it—"

"I expect to see thee steal through the window," Cecil says, his voice clipped, "but truly I know not now what thou hast stolen."

Bugger. England straightens slowly, palms out. America drops the stack of books in his arms, and Will knocks his elbow into the bookshelf. Fuck, he could have planned this better.

"What mean you by this?" Cecil asks.

"Yea verily, a most excellent question!" America says. "We. Uh. They don't have bombs yet, do they?" he asks England in an undertone.

England groans.

"Right, not a bomb squad. No, we are sent to rid your, uh, chambers of all dangerous items! Classified compounds! Will, help me," he adds in a whisper.

"Diseased specimens," Will says, tries to smile.

"In keeping with ye olde health and safety regulations—"

"We haven't got any of those. It's all right, America, leave off it." England sighs, and if there's anything diseased in the room it's that sound, drawn and rattling as it is. "You can guess at our purpose, Cecil."

"Ay, I can, but know not how I have roused your suspicions."

"You held Spenser's correspondences—"

Cecil's mouth twists, a parody of the distortion in his back. "I made that known to you days ago."

"No, I had it from you that they were copies, and that the true letters were sent on. But you kept the originals, did you not?"

Cecil closes his eyes; the flame in his hand winks lower, casts his face into shadow.

"Zounds, man! Did any of Spenser's letters reach their target?"

"Ay." Cecil lets his hand fall to his side, as though the weight of the candle's too great for his arm to bear. "His missive to Master Shakespeare. 'Twas his first such request, and I knew not why he made it."

"Then you knew I was sent for," Will says. He sets the book he was thumbing through down quietly. His voice, when he speaks again, is barely louder. "As did the one sent there to murder me upon my arrival."

"That," Cecil says, "I did not know."

"Just like you didn't know about the zombies, I bet," America mutters.

"What?"

"Wights," England says through gritted teeth. "A sodding platoon of them attacked us not a mile out from Richmond. You hadn't heard that, either?"

"No." Cecil doesn't elaborate. The wind rustling outside his window has more to say than he does. Even the sputtering hiss of the tallow's more evocative than this—this fucking Puritan _austerity_.

"For god's sake, Cecil, what mean you by this silence?" England snatches the candle from his hand and holds it between their faces, its heat charging the air between them until whatever substance there is seems to sizzle. "Have you nothing to offer in your defense?" _I trusted you_, he wants to shout, but that's dripping through every word as it is.

Cecil meets his eyes, but England cannot see himself mirrored in them. They're black, blacker than anything else in the room, black as pitch. "What can I say?" he asks, sweeps his gaze towards America and Will and challenges them to speak if they can. "Innocence cannot be proven, only guilt. But know ye this: would you stand in Essex's chambers as you have in mine, and relate your suspicions to him?"

* * *

"Do you believe him?" America asks once they've reached the inn again. They journeyed back in near silence; America cracked a joke or two, but gave up the effort when neither England nor Will laughed.

England rubs his temples, which does little to mitigate the ache building in them. "Damned if I know. I _hate_ when plots and counter-plots collide."

"And they do so often," Will murmurs. He sits, stretches his legs out and winces, rubs it to loosen a cramp.

"No kidding." America props his boots on the table. "So do we get a look at Essex's place now or what?"

"Boots off the table. And I suppose we'd best, inelegant of a plan as it is."

"We could talk to the servants first, see if they've seen anything—"

"No," Will says, sharply enough that England looks up.

America blinks. "No?"

Will's hand curls into a fist in his lap, trembles. "Pay them enough and they shall swear the sun sinks in the east. No," he says again, looking down; the shudder travels up his arm and is trapped in his throat. "We cannot trust them."

England sees the question take shape on America's lips and rests his hand on America's arm, as if to say _leave it be_. "And we can't trust them not to report back to Essex if _he_ pays them enough."

Slowly, America nods. "Why get paid once when you can get paid twice, huh?"

"Precisely. Will can tell us if he picks up anything from that blasted book." You'd think the damn thing would make it easier for its rightful owner to find it, but England has no way of knowing.

"I will try—"

America sits up, his feet skidding off the table, and snaps his fingers. "The book! I almost forgot. Hang on a sec."

England and Will look at each other. England shrugs.

America thunders back down the stairs, book held aloft. "Here you go! I found it in this bookshop—England said you might not have authorized the publication—" He presses the book into Will's hands. "But apparently it's doing pretty well, so hey, you're a hit."

Will flips to the title page, frowning. "_The Passionate Pilgrim_? No, I have not heard of this." He pages through the book, mouth thinning at first, then smiles. "I'faith, this is more homunculus than book: a piece from my sonnets, scraps from _Love's Labours Lost_—"

"That one looks pretty good," America says, cranes his head over Will's shoulder. England strains to see, too. "'_Come live with me and be my love—_'"

"_And we will all the pleasures prove_," Will says, his finger slipping from the page. Oh dear. "_That hills and valleys, dale and field,_," he continues, and his voice, like his finger, trails downwards. "_And all the craggy mountains yield_—ay, a beautiful work, but not mine."

"Kit's," England says. Will nods.

"Kit?" America frowns. "Christopher Marlowe?"

Will nods again, and sets the book down as though he can bear to touch it no longer.

"I thank thee for thy kindness, America," he says quietly. "Forgive me; this is a poor sort of thanks, but I—" He swallows, closes his eyes. "I have seen it before, aye, how could I not? 'Tis strange to remember him writing this. Kit was never a man for pastorals, and I challenged him—" He smiles at something very far away. "I told him, 'Kit, then there is no better man for it, for thou wilt strip away all ornament and mawkish sentiment and leave the truth of the matter plain.'

'As befits a shepherd, ay,' he said, 'but to speak so plain invites response, and what love can bear—'"

Will stops, covers his hand with his mouth briefly.

"'What love can bear such scrutiny, when it has no artifice to hide behind? What you seek is a fragile thing, and fearful.'

'Who fears?' I asked him then. 'Thy passionate shepherd, or thee?'" He smiles again, but there's no lightness in it.

"Oh," America says, then, eyes widening: "_Oh_."

England can think of nothing to say at all.

"Is it strange," Will asks, "that a man be dead these past six years but not gone?"

England shakes his head. The knot in his throat won't permit him to speak.

"Gone, ay, and words are all that remain." He rises; the joints in his bad leg crack. "I should retire, I think; today has been long. But before I do I would cry thy pardon, America: I have shown thee ingratitude most rank to treat thy gift thus, America."

"Nah, it's okay," America says. "Forget about it, all right?"

* * *

Their new room has, of course, only one bed.

"Dibs," America says, then clears his throat. "Uh."

"Neither of us is sleeping on the floor at these temperatures, don't be ridiculous," England says.

"So we're sharing?"

"So it would seem." England coughs. "It's common practice, you know. Hardly out of the ordinary. Men share beds with one another for the warmth."

America looks as if he's about to say _that's gay_ but refrains. England almost commends him for it, but that would defeat the purpose, wouldn't it. "Being cold all the time blows," he says instead. "Makes you miss global warming."

England rolls his eyes. "Then shut up and get under the covers." _Idiot_, he nearly adds, but America's complying for once in his life, wriggling under the blankets and shucking most of his undergarments from under there. How many centuries has it been since America slept in a shift? Well, before this adventure, at any rate. He wonders how the shift falls on America now; he doubts America swims in it as he once did.

He _sprawls_ as he once did, though, England discovers. It wasn't such a bother when he was a child, but now that he's grown he seems to cover all the space available and encroach on what isn't his, his knee nudging England's calf, his forehead solid against England's shoulder.

For all he spoke of being cold, he's warm. Fuck, he's warm.

England keeps his arms rigid at his sides. America sighs and shifts again, and now his hair is brushing England's collarbone and the corner of his mouth is pressed to England's shift and really, this is intolerable.

"America," he begins.

Nothing. The lummox likely still sleeps like a log.

"America, if I'm to break into Essex's apartments tomorrow I really ought to be well-rested for it, and I damned well won't be if you keep this up."

America sighs, turns his mouth to England's neck. That's not at all helpful.

"It is _not_ your manifest destiny to spread to every corner of this bed, do you hear me?"

Apparently not.

"Oh, shove off—" He grabs America by the shoulders and attempts to heave him to the side, but America is solid and unyielding as ever and seems to think England is inviting him to snuggle closer because he drapes his arm over England's chest, pins him in place.

"You have no understanding of boundaries," he grits. "None whatsoever. Never have, you wanker." He rummages through his store of insults to find an appropriate one, and he'd expect two thousand years of linguistic experience to give him _some_ word for this Nation beside him, but he comes up short. Fuck, he always comes up short with America.

America's chest rumbles, and England's halfway to scratching him behind the ear before he realises what he's doing. He stops, stares back up at the vast blackness of the ceiling.

"I never know what to do with you," he says. "I suppose I never have."

"—gland?"

Every fiber of England's being grows cold. "America?" he whispers. The sound's fragile, barely more than a sigh; he daren't break the silence more than that.

America lifts his head to regard him with a bleary eye. "Mmph."

And _now_ England finds the wherewithal to shove America over—if he's been listening this entire time and feigning sleep England _will_ throttle him, make no mistake—

"Wha?"

"_You_," England says, doesn't bother to keep his voice down, "need to stay on your own side of the fucking bed."

"Huh?"

"For god's sake—here." He flings his leg over America's thigh, throws his arm over his chest, pillows his head in the crook of America's shoulder and turns to glare at him. "This is how you were sleeping."

He expects some witty retort from America, but America says nothing, and England is acutely, painfully aware of the solid flesh under him, the slow rise and fall of America's chest, the slackness in America's lips. England clenches his jaw, and even if America were to speak now England doubts he could hear over the rush of his own blood.

"It isn't appropriate," England says at last, and doesn't know whether to pat himself on the back or kick himself in the groin.

"Ha," America says, but there's no laughter in his voice, only a thick sort of weariness. "Uh. No. Right. Sorry, it's just—kinda cold."

"Sodding freezing."

He yawns. "You want me to build a pillow barrier or something?"

"We're both too old for that," England says. "Stay on your side."

"Both too old?" America asks, and England can _see_ him smile even if he can't, well, see him.

"Yes. Whelp," he adds, because there's a comfort to it. "Go back to sleep. We've a long day ahead of us."

"Yeah, yeah. Night."

He rolls over, puts his back to—well. All that. America may well keep to his side of the bed for the remainder of the night, but England still doubts he'll sleep a wink. He makes an effort of it, though, squeezes his eyes shut and forces his breathing to steady, deepen, slow.

"England?"

_Keep breathing,_ he steels himself.

America's fingertips brush his forehead more lightly than England thought possible, and England's breath stops. And then America is gone again, settling back onto his side as the bed groans beneath him.

England curls in on himself, strokes that spot on his skin until he falls asleep to the rhythm of it.

* * *

"_How_ many bedrooms?"

"Forty-two," England says, crouches by the outhouse and blows in his hands to warm them. The reek's awful, but the wind is worse, and at least he has some shelter from it here, some way to slow the chill leaking into his bones. "Forty-two bedrooms, a picture gallery, kitchens, a banqueting suite, and a chapel. And the outhouses, of course."

"Yeah, I noticed those." America wrinkles his nose.

"And we must search them all?" Will asks.

"I hope not. Let's see what intelligence we can gather."

The best way to spy, England has discovered, is not to skulk about in fear but to act as if you're doing nothing out of the ordinary, and to walk with purpose. If you look like you know where you're going, people generally assume you do. He therefore strides towards the kitchens with a sack of potatoes he lifted from the larder. "Here," America says, "I got it," and plucks the sack from England's arms as though it weighs nothing at all.

At least that'll prevent him from sticking his hands in his pockets and whistling to appear inconspicuous. England stifles a groan. He's asked America to be subtle, hasn't he. Oh, he deserves whatever comes of this.

The blaze of the kitchens is welcome after the bitter wind, and England is almost tempted to sink onto one of the benches and bask in the heat. America dumps the potatoes into a basin; he appears to have struck up a conversation with one of the boys, and England tries to listen through the haze of noise and smoke. He starts to assemble a tray and avoids looking up from his task, lest anyone meet his eyes and ask what he's doing.

"Richard Stockton!" someone shouts in his ear. He nearly drops the tray.

A woman, her arms thick and red as slabs of beef, grabs his shoulder and spins him about. "Richard, if I catch thy fingers in the pudding again—cry your pardon, sir, methought you was that knockabout."

"Not I," England says, but she's already released him. She strides towards a slender boy with wheat-colored hair, shouting, "Richard Stockton!"

"Richard Stockton?" Will asks, suddenly at England's shoulder, and England nearly drops the tray again.

"There is such a thing, Will," he says, "as being too good at entrances."

"Ay," Will concedes, looking at the boy. "And I must make another shortly."

Before them, the woman boxes Richard's ear soundly and sends him up the stairs with a stinging slap to his backside.

America sidles over to England's side, as well, and polishes off the last of a meat bun. "So! What next?"

"We follow Will's lead," England says, "but count to ten before you follow me out, all right?"

America gives England a thumbs-up. "One Mississippi."

England does the same before following Will into the grounds beyond. Someone's nailed a horseshoe to the kitchen door; apparently Essex's servants _do_ know how to keep the fae out, which quashes any hope he had of asking their aid. The blast of cold once he's left nearly sends him reeling, but Will grabs his arm and steadies him.

"I would request Essex's seal of thee, or a glamour of it," he says.

"A glamour is easy enough." England's hands sketch the shape of an envelope and draw the seal in the center; the air glows, hums faintly, and when the light fades the illusion holds steady. Will takes it.

"What of _that_, America?"

"Sleight-of-hand," America says, rubs his eyes as though to clear the glow from them. "And—flash powder? Something like that."

England rolls his eyes.

They follow several paces behind Will and flatten themselves behind an arch when Will comes upon the boy again. "Richard!" he says, his voice an urgent rasp. "Richard Stockton!"

Richard starts. "Who calls?"

Will steps out from behind the kitchen wall, the hood of his cloak throwing his face into shadow. England bites his fist to keep from laughing. "I call, Richard Stockton." He produces the illusory letter with sleight-of-hand almost good enough to mistake for magic, and lets Essex's seal flash for just long enough. "Thy master has especial need of thee."

"What does my master want?" Richard whispers, near-slackjawed.

"Thou'rt to deliver this to the room," Will says, the last two words almost too low to be heard.

"Which—which room, milord?"

"Thou knowst it, boy. The one forbidden to all his servants—save thee."

Richard's eyes are as big as goose eggs. "And I—_I_ am—" he begins, voice cracking.

"Thy master asked for thee and no other." Will draws himself up to an even greater height. "He told me thy name, and thy countenance, so I might find thee. Go quickly, for 'tis a matter most grave. But take care, Master Stockton: speak of this to no one, for not all within these walls can be trusted."

"Ay, sir, so I shall." Richard nearly trips over his tongue. "I shall, by my life—"

Will's equally adept at making an exit, for he's managed to tuck himself out of sight again. Richard crosses himself and sets off at a slight jog for the manor, his eyes darting all about.

"Okay, that was awesome," America says.

"Yes," England agrees. "I could kiss him for that."

"Ha, yeah. –wait, what?"

* * *

The chapel sits nestled among the outbuildings clustered near the back wall, its peaked roof breaching the sky. Richard draws his cloak tighter; behind him, England does the same. The boy looks 'round and behind and darts to the door in back, fiddles with the knob. When it won't give, he slips the illusory letter under the door and bolts towards the safety of the kitchens.

"He's hoodooing it up in a church?" America whistles. "That's some bad mojo, man."

"Mojo," England repeats, smirking.

America scowls. "Not like actual magic. It's like karma. You know. Inviting ironic cosmic payback and stuff."

England won't waste his time arguing the particulars when he's got a lock to magic open. He presses his hands to the door and feels for the shape of the wards overlaying it—there _are_ wards here, and well-laid ones. He reaches out with his mind, tugs at the threads of power until he finds one that trembles and brings the force of his will to bear on that, pulls it until it snaps and unravels the rest of the wards. So there _is_ something to hide here. Charming the lock open is a simple matter after dismantling the wards; the door almost wants to give.

"Will? You okay?"

Will's cheeks have a greenish tinge to them. He frowns, coughs, says, "Sooth, but this is strange. There is a tightness in my chest—" He coughs again, stares at his hand. "I reject the air I breathe, as though it carries an unseen taint."

"There, America," England says. "Your metal detector."

"Or bad juju detector," America says, and England lets that one go. Perhaps he'll come around more quickly if he doesn't feel the need to defend himself.

"Once more into the breach," England says, pushes the door open.

Will murmurs, "I like that phrase."

"Then have it."

Will doesn't respond; he's too busy gagging.

The dusty light filtering in through the sole window reveals little; the room seems almost determined to veil itself. Heavy cloths half-hide a bookshelf, table, and desk. England runs his finger over the fabric, and it comes away clean, with no trace of dust. "Whatever this is, it hasn't been abandoned."

He pulls the cloth off the desk, and Will doubles over.

"Will!"

"Keep your voice down," England tells America. "What is it?" he asks.

Will staggers closer to the desk, traces a rough rectangle on its surface. "It lay here," he says. "Traces of it malinger still—ay, something was wrought here, something 'gainst all nature."

That settles the question of who has the damned thing, at least. England looks at the lengthening shadows and wishes the thought gave him any comfort.

"What's in here?" America asks, taps the drawer under the desk. "Looks like it's locked."

England begins to charm it open, but America yanks the handle, rips the lock out of the wood. So much for subtlety, England thinks, and glares, though America misses it in the gloom. America rummages around in the drawer and produces a stack of letters, unfolds the top one and whistles. "Check it out, guys."

He and Will crowd closer to read, squinting to make out the script in what light remains.

_My lord,_

The situation in Ireland grows more desperate; you will have heard of the rout at Yellow Ford, and of the dire defeat of our men there. Men, I call them, though they are barely that, but plague-ridden and pox-eaten as their souls are, they are still the souls of Englishmen, and I would weigh ten of them against that of the heartiest Irish heathen. And yet I do fear for such souls, meager as they are, should we pluck them from their rest and bind them to our service—but I think, also, of how many more bodies are needed to turn this tide, and there is some thrift to re-using what has already been used, that we need not use more than we must.

But what I speak of, and dare name only in this sneaking equivocating fashion, may yet place our own souls in danger most grave. I entreat you, speak to Her Majesty of this our plan; her blessing, an it be had, will wash my heart clean of all cowardice.

America breaks the silence after. "So what does it mean?"

"It means," England says, "that someone's been raising himself an army of wights."

"Zombies."

"Oh, for fuck's sake—"

The door creaks, and England barely has time to look up before the man is upon him.

He shouts—the man's arm wraps around his windpipe, and England slams his head back as hard as he can. Pain flares at the back of his skull, but the man stumbles, his arm slackening, and England drives his elbow into where he thinks the man's midsection is to wrest himself free. He dashes to the other side of the table, places it between himself and the man.

The man draws his sword, a thin grey blade. It's the most distinct thing about him; he's clad head-to-toe in black otherwise. A hood hides the top half of his face, and a cloth covers the rest.

"England, you didn't tell me there were ninjas in the Renaissance!"

"Don't be daft, he's not a ninja—"

The man vaults on top of the table, and England starts to wonder. Not for long, though; he turns to the side before that blade can skewer him. America gathers up one of the cloths and hurls it at the man. It catches him full in the face and spreads, and England shouts, "Run!" and motions for the others to follow before the man can work himself free.

America seizes the sword he unearthed earlier in one hand and the back of Will's collar in the other and dashes through the open door, England following. The door opens into the chapel proper, and England barely has time to slam it shut before it flies open again, as though blown by a great wind. The man in black stands in the door, gestures to America, and though the words he speaks are no language England knows his very bones resound with them, fill his head until he hears nothing but their echo—

"No!" he shouts, and sends raw power shuttling towards the man, no shape or thought to it other than _get away from him_. The man's knocked sideways into the altar, and England staggers to one knee, breathing hard. What did he tap to do that? Likely something he couldn't afford to. He tries to stand but his muscles stubbornly refuse. They've locked tight, and the rest of him follows suit; even his lungs won't budge. Shit.

Will hauls him to his feet, and England's vision swims. "America," he gasps.

America runs towards the dais but the man shouts some sort of command, knocks him back. He scrambles to his feet again, his sword ready. The man's blade clashes against his—America grits his teeth and brings his weight to bear as their hilts tangle and lock, pushes the man to his knees.

"Don't—don't let that sword touch you," England manages, "I don't like how it looks."

"Wasn't—ugh—planning on it—"

The man breaks free and lunges for America's knee, and England is running to America's side, running as fast as his still-stiff legs can manage. America loses his balance but does avoid the sword, brings his own up to slice at the muscle near the man's groin. The man buckles but that ought to have crippled him, and at a pass of his hand and more words that make England's head spin, the rip begins to knit itself together again.

"What the hell language is _that_?" America asks, hoisting himself to his feet.

"The Ealdsprǽc, I'd wager." England wipes his mouth, his hands still jerkier than he'd like. "It's like being beaten about the head with a brick."

"These are not subtle words," Will agrees, steps in front of them both.

"Will, what the blazing fuck—"

England's head roars when Will speaks; dimly, he recognises the word, it's the same one the man shouted at America earlier. It sends him crashing into the bench, at any rate, a shower of splinters marking his fall.

"Well done," England manages to say. He thinks. The man in black is already on his feet, chanting, and the splinters in the air arrange themselves like needles, all pointing to Will. Before England can weave a shield, the splinters fly—several sink in before Will shouts that word again and blasts them back, scatters them all over the chapel.

"Ay," Will says, his breathing ragged, "so unsubtle as to be artless, and yet."

America charges forward, his sword forgotten and his arms outstretched—he seizes the man's cloak but the cloak lifts itself from the man's shoulders and wraps itself around America instead, smothering him.

England weaves spells for breaking and dissolving as fast as he can, but the threads of his magic tangle and slip, and the spells slide off the cloak. The charms he's learnt are shadows against this power, whatever it is.

Fine, then. Time to go deeper.

He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, spits on the cloak, and says, "My blood is the tide, and the tide breaks all."

The cloak unravels, and the thread falls softly to the ground around America's feet. _Oh good_, England thinks, and sways in place.

The man in black, of course, is gone.

"Well shit," America says. "Essex has ninjas working for him, too?"

"Ninja sorcerers," England says dryly.

"Okay, now you're just being ridiculous."

* * *

.

* * *

A/N: See Chapter Two for dialect notes.

There really was a book called _The Passionate Pilgrim_ published in 1599, purportedly by Shakespeare but containing a lot of poems that weren't his, including The Passionate Shepherd to His Love. 1599 was also the year when Shakespeare wrote _As You Like It_, which contains a tribute to "the dead shepherd" - Kit Marlowe - and I will stop now before I get tinhatty on y'all but SHAKESPEARE/MARLOWE OTP.

The Battle of the Yellow Ford happened in 1598 - the English forces were marching from a town called Armagh to relieve the siege at Blackwater fort, and the Irish army ambushed them and trounced them pretty thoroughly. Not England's finest hour.


End file.
